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. The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. She looked into his eyes, truly noticing their gray color for the first time. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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