. 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. My late husband, I mean. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. ” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed.
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