At the Palazzo, the cook’s cook had a team of servants under him. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. 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. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. "You've arrived sooner than I expected, Sir Rowland," observed the thief-taker.
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