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. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. Ruth read: DEAR SIR: "We are delighted to accept these four stories, particularly 'The Man Who Could Not Go Home.
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