"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. "Sit beside me," continued Mrs. Not if I read her aright. 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. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Don’t leave me. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. ’ ‘But you must. ” “Fine.
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