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The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. “I don’t know where to go to. I don't know anything about you. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. ‘Gammon. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. Because Leonardo, he made me see that I can be someone. I learned of your betrothal, gleaned all the information I could simply by eavesdropping. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. "I have nearly done," replied the stranger. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. It’s no good flying out at that, Vee; I didn’t arrange it. 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.
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