" Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her. 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. ‘Her purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may marry an Englishman. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. Of course he hadn't played the game wisely. ‘I have Joan to tell me how much I look like Mary. ” There came a silence again. " "Why what will she say?" inquired Sheppard.
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