In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. With the same inducements we should all do the same thing. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. "Well, what can you expect, guzzling poison like that? Are you returning with us to Hong-Kong in the morning?" "No. A woman such as I am might help take care of Mr. Q. 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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