"Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. Gosse would have killed me, and perhaps in the fight I might kill him. ” Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start. 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 tiles lay a foot thick in the road.
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