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. She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. on. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not. But it’s as you say. ‘It is to say goodbye, you understand.
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