He refused to believe that Anna was not ‘Alcide. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. ’ The girl nodded understandingly. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. 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. He was so seldom wrong.
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