He realized that he was committed to the path across the fields, an uninteresting walk at the best of times. 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. ” Lucy snickered. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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