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. Eh bien, they would see about this. ‘But I was not there. A silence ensued. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. The chain, which had been partially cut through, snapped near the staple.
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