The hurricane had now reached its climax. 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. E. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. B. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. Get it off your soul.
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