Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. Occasionally he revealed tidbits about his past after a good kill. . I never let her read stories, or have pets, dolls. She thought her niece very hard and very self-possessed and self-confident. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. 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 year—I’ve got it badly. And yet he knew clearly and definitely what he purposed to do, what the future would be.
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