It is magnificent indeed. "I hope you don't imagine anything has gone wrong, Sir. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he. Her head rose. 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. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders.
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