The desert storm was riding in its strength; the travellers lay beneath the mastery of the fell simoom.[…]Roaring, leaping, pouncing, the tempest raged about the wanderers, drowning and blotting out their forms with sandy spume.

And I want you to be nice to Patty. For some reason her back is up.

[…] the owl and the bat flew round the darkening trees:

“Yes, mother mine,” she replied. (Sylvia was rather addicted to little preciosities of this kind.)