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 heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. Go for it. “May I hear?” “It really isn’t much to tell,” Drummond answered. She wondered if the second part would overcome his objections? Several times the words had rushed to her tongue, to find her tongue paralysed.
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