But first, we’ve got to secure the convent. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. We went our ways. 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. And she’s pluck to the backbone. She looked steadfastly out. "To the world's end," answered Jack, darting after him.
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