She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. 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. ‘Typical. ‘I am not a fool. ’ ‘Willingly?’ ‘Parbleu, what a person you think me. ” They were lingering over their dessert.
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