If I surprised her, if I saw her alone, I might make her understand. 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. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. However, it don't signify. Think of those days in Paris.
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