‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. He laughed suddenly, and released her. Folks don’t like ’em. 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. "Certain. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away.
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