Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. ‘Good God!’ uttered Roding. 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. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. I’m okay. And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned.
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