Anna was unimpressed. Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. 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. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. But no more of that. ” Courtlaw’s walking stick, which he had been handling, fell with a crash to the ground. The woollen-draper looked at his watch.
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