She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. 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. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. ‘Both of them so wise after the event. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly.
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