I didn’t ought to have sent for him. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. 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. It was red and chapped. She is very charming, and we all admire her immensely. “You are making your dress?” “Such as it is.
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