" "Help me through at all hazards, Poll," cried Jack, straining towards the opening. The young lady with frizzled hair, whom Brendon had pointed out to her as Miss Ellicot, leaned forward from her hostess’s side. 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. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. But he wrote on.
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