She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. 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. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. She limited herself to eating once a fortnight, until she discovered that she could go without comfortably for a month. Footman or some such.
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