" "It is," replied Jack. They sat in the front row. 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. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities. E. Beck, it smells wonderful in here. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips.
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