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. "But there's nothing more to see in Canton. She kept her face downcast. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter.
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