For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. 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. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath.
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