” “Then perhaps,” she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, “perhaps I really do not care. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. Gerald went through all the papers in front of Gosse and that woman of his, one by one. 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. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said.
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