When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. 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. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief. " CHAPTER V.
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