We shall have—hardly any money. We can’t even protect them from themselves. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. ‘Jacques?’ ‘No. 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. The girl is in it as deeply as he is. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style.
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