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 am afraid I have not been very nice,” she said sadly. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves.
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