“So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. 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. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. “Very much as usual,” said Ramage. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below.
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