. . Once they were below, McClintock turned upon the doctor. 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. I am going to make a fresh start. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. He was in the house with his mother. ’ ‘In one little minute,’ she said, snapping her fingers, ‘it is over and voilà tout.
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