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. She had Cathy’s predisposition to overweight and her hips were solid and thick under her jeans. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill.
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