He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. 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. This vessel is now in the river, off Wapping. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness.
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