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. I am loved. With some difficulty, they managed to negotiate the passage with their burden and carry him out into the library. “Please play something for us,” Carol asked, her eyes aglow. He went in there, and he was in there for a good half hour.
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