She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. 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. Anna raised her eyes. It might prove rewarding. Don’t try to shield anybody or hide anything. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter.
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