Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. 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. "No matter how much I tell of myself, I shall always keep something back. The wings stopped. “My cab with all that luggage would give the whole show away. Grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and aunts … to love and to coddle lonely little girls. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. Don't be afraid.
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