She did not try to approach him. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. 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. "This is not the way to obtain it," said Winifred, endeavouring to reach the door.
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