‘If you shoot me,’ Gerald said quickly, throwing out a hand, ‘I shan’t be able to rescue you. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. 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. Anna sent her away. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her. Truth to tell, more damage had been done in the enthusiastic chase carried out by the militiamen detailed to catch it.
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