‘What else do you expect? It’s the penalty you pay for marrying an Englishman. 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. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg.
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