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. Know that I love you, that I will always love you. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. “If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him.
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