"Don't exchange glances with him under my very nose, woman!" shrieked Mrs. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. She wanted to think. He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. His hand went with an almost instinctive inquiry to his jawbone again. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. 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.
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