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. If I let you believe I did not love you, and they found me, your shame would be negligible. There was nothing to be learned from her face. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. “If I do,” he said.
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