‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. 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. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love.
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