He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. She loved him. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one. 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.
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