“And yet in a very few weeks I shall have done with it all. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. Taking the wind was her business in life. 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. In the middle there was a gate. I’ve got no feminine class feeling. .
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