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O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Jests are not for seasons like this. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. CHAPTER III. 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. She felt as if she had struck them unawares.
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