‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. 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. She was the first to recover herself. “And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park.
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