’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. 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. It is not you who runs the risk of going dinnerless to-morrow. “It couldn’t be. It wasn’t long ago that a girl went straight from the farm to her husband, just as soon as her period came and she could make babies.
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