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 had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince. It was approached from the street by a flight of broad stone steps, leading to a ponderous door, plated with iron, and secured on the inner side by huge bolts, and a lock, with wards of a prodigious size. Why should I peep at it through smoked glass to see things that don’t affect me?” He smiled his delight at his companion. At length Jack Sheppard observed:—"The coast's clear. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said.
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