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. She had no intention of fighting fair. Worse than any man. A nod was exchanged. ‘En tout cas, I have waiting for me a cavalier. “A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. ‘I will fight to the death, if it needs. ” “Men,” said Miss Miniver, “NEVER have a reason. Conquer the difficult situation in which she found herself.
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