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. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. He seemed to have expected them. He took over, doing his best to rearrange his overly sensitive member back into his pants. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat.
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