I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. Mr. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. One must get them with exactly the same intensity. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. 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. We married, and for a time we were happy. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box.
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