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. She was watching him intently. Why don’t you wait and see if you do truly love me, then I can believe you? Then I know I am worth waiting for. You represent to me an enigma, the solution of which has become the one desire of my life. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. ” “And you?” asked David Courtlaw.
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