“I’m really very sorry. These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates. But,” and he faced them both with a still expressionless glance, “this is not the end!” Anna recovered her spirits with marvellous facility. Anna felt that her words had become charged with a fuller and more subtle meaning than any which she had intended to impart. 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. Pioneers all of them. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think.
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