Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me. "You," answered Jack, abruptly. 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. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters.
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