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. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. I want him immediately, so you can send Frith with my phaeton if you like. On the orders of Mr Jarvis, that were.
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