Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. Curiously enough nothing will persuade him that she is not ‘Alcide. 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.
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