“Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. Now there is none. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt 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. I was afraid you wouldn't talk to me--you seem kind of shy--but I figured maybe I could still talk you into joining our study group, it goes all year.
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