The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her. 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. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. Mr. . “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. The late afternoon, en effet. She hated living like that. Her eye met Miss Stanley’s understandingly, and she was if anything a trifle more affectionate in her greeting to Ann Veronica. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow.
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