I am carrying back a hundred new books and forty new records for the piano-player. 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. I knew where I would go next: Florence. Something in her tone made him look up. . "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped.
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