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. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. Michelle laughed, saying that she could only guess. It's my way when I'm ruffled. The thing is, Miss Charvill —’ ‘He told you my name?’ cut in Melusine, surprised.
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