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. And then, “They seem changed. But although startled and clearly afraid, there was no self-consciousness in her gaze and she was standing her ground. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. ” Again on his way homeward from Cavendish Square he abandoned the direct route to pass by the door of Anna’s flat. I know all. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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