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. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. "In favour of my son. ” She shifted again. Hurry to me, I entreat you. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent.
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