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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. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. The showers of Second Period Physical Education class became another front on the battleground. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. It will be altogether you. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air.
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