“Would you wait for me?” Manning was silent for a space. Men had tried that before, but never until now had they been quick enough. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. .
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