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. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?” He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. She wanted to turn him. "But clear the room of this rabble, if you have sufficient authority over them. You couldn’t help it.
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