But Miss Stanley took no notice of these things. Wily little devil she is. She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted. Fell to sin, did Martha. But the sheer tenacity of the girl defeated him. 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. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you.
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