” “You do not flatter me,” she laughed. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. . 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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