You are welcome to proclaim yourself ‘Alcide’ if you will. But you are Annabel. Hogarth," remarked Jack, dejectedly. 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. His technique had gained much subtlety over the years. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him.
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