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. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. " This sally occasioned a general laugh. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. I’ve to collect my sword and hat, and then we must get back to London.
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