" "We shall see," replied Jack. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. 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. If by any chance I have made a mistake a word will bring me to you. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. “How are those books any different from the witchcraft books?” “I dunno. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. ’ ‘Je m’en moque.
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