Lucy grabbed its handle, her broken bones mending inside her causing her to wince in pain. 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. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. " "If you're in earnest," rejoined Blueskin, "give me that bag of gold. Let’s go. But one of these days everything will click back into place.
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