His eyes never left her face. 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. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. “Anna!” she repeated. ” Drummond shook his head in melancholy fashion. Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open.
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