"There won't be much left for you," he said. 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. She had been working upon a ribbon of microtome sections of the developing salamander, and he came to see what she had made of them.
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