“I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. 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 have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. She peered into the darkness. ’ His brows rose.
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