She would write to Gerald. Let’s have an advance round of applause for our concertmaster, 249 Lucy Albert!” Lucy was horrified. The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. “But your sister?” he asked. 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. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone.
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