Lucy stared at the girl for a long ten seconds, and then looked away. “Have you any money?” “Lots,” Anna answered laconically. 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. " "Come, my disconsolate darlings," cried Austin, "it only wants five minutes to six. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed.
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