The mode of destruction makes no difference. ” For a time she sat on a rail before leaving the road for the downland turf. We are going to have this chap writing books one of these days. ” She spotted a beer bottle and picked it up from the ground. 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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