“I can survive on my own. I won't keep you long. And this clear-visioned child had comprehended that only half the rogues were really ill. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. 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.
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