Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. 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. "Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill.
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