She wormed her way past Sebastian, glanced at her mother’s blackened face, her obscenely naked body bulging with yellow and black buboes under the arms and in the groin that oozed stinking fluid. She drew a long breath. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. 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. But the fall was too great, and he abandoned the attempt. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well. “I’d never have a day of peace again, John. Mr. I can’t help you a cent. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. Nevertheless it was overwhelming.
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