That would be an unkind twist of fate. And the woollen-draper departed. “I suppose Paris is very, very distracting. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. Good-bye, Anna!” Annabel sprang up. 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. 47, straightening her hat and waiting for her luggage to appear.
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