His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. 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. For a second time Ann Veronica wanted to swear at the universe. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. Ann Veronica decided to be more explicit.
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