’ ‘Yes, I know,’ Gerald put in with an irrepresssible chuckle. The impassivity of her features changed at last. Lucy could sense her mental resolution to nip Michelle’s burgeoning obsession with the occult in the bud. 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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