“Why not?” “Because you are mine. 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’ll get a towel. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. Only you won’t let me exist!” Mr. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job.
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