It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. She felt a storm of emotion surging up within her. But this accusation, for want of sufficient evidence, met with the same fate as the first, and Jonathan came off victorious. 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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