‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. ‘How famous. 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. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge. One cannot successfully argue with a drunken man. She ought to have leapt back on guard.
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