She was weeping now. 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. It would be swindling. The whole was then fired, and in a few minutes the room was a blaze. ” “Tolstoy is so good about this,” said Miss Miniver, regardless of her friend’s attitude.
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