Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Taking the wind was her business in life. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. 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.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTUuMjExLjM0IC0gMDQtMDctMjAyNCAxNDozMjoyNiAtIDE1NDQyNjg3OA==
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