Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. We thought of starting in half an hour’s time, and trying for a theatre somewhere on the way. Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. 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.
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