" "Oh! let me die," groaned the widow. ‘So it was. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. 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. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. To reach it would be a most difficult undertaking.
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