” Lucy observed, watching her friend. Wood, I forget nothing. She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No. It's as well to be on the safe side. She turned quickly. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. This roof is still open to you. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. 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. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true.
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