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. He was mad. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created. Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face.
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