She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. I want you to hold me and have me SO. 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. —Strype's Stow. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again.
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