‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. 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. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. Please don’t let any one know that. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it.
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