” “Well,” she said, “has there not been some reason for this? The likeness to Annabel could scarcely have escaped remark. You had better let me go again. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. I drew out what I had saved and boarded the first ship out. ‘Jacques?’ she called. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. 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. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly.
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