Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. 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. Always as black and bitter as gall. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. “Let me know the truth.
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