"No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. 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. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. "What is this?" she wanted to know. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo.
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