The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. 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. “It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I— knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. .
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