“I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. 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. What was the matter with Spurlock that was to keep him in bed three or four weeks? He would dig that out of the hotel manager. ‘Hates doing the pretty.
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