Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. 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. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. I've always been more or less music-mad.
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