"Nobody has so much cause for complaint as me," growled Austin. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. 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 said under her breath. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it.
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