” Lucy gestured to the rough plywood floor. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. 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. Beautiful sculptures of sugar and almond paste decorated the long tables, delicate replicas of flowers and miniature animals, even a small Palazzo sculpted from cakes graced the table. To the point however. " "Others may, if you won't," muttered Jack, retiring. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. ” She distantly remembered moments in childhood spent in phobic trance, when her father had told her God was punishing sinners in Hell. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders.
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