“Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. 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. “You cannot give me ultimatums. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. Your face has flitted out of my watch-fire, and then I have been a haunted man.
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