‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. "Do you hear me?" cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. 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. She could not help but swoon a little. “They might do you good,” she remarked. She observed the tides, amazed by how high the water could rise, almost touching the tops of the cliffs. "I was merely about to observe that I am in possession of her secret. " "Never," said Mrs. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. " "The very face," exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—"with all the escapes written in it.
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