Then Peter, conscious only that Clare was
beside him, wild with the excitement of the storm, caught her, held her for
a moment away from him, breathed the thunder that was about them all, and
then kissed her mouth, wet with the rain.
She clung to him, white, breathless, her head on his shoulder.
"Why, you're not frightened?" The sense of her helplessness filled him with
a delicious vigour. The way that her hand pressed in upon his shoulder
exalted him. Her wet golden hair brushed his cheek. Then he remembered that
they had invaded the cottage. For the first time it occurred to him that
their first embrace might have been observed; he turned around.
The room was filthy, a huge black fire-place occupied most of it, the floor
was littered with pieces of paper, of vegetables and a disagreeable smell
protested against the closed and dirty windows. At first it seemed that
this place was empty and then, with a start, he was aware that two eyes
were watching them. The thunder pealed above them, the rain lashed the roof
and ran streaming from the eaves; the cottage was dark; but he saw in a
chair, a bundle of rags from which those eyes were staring.
Clare gave a little cry; an old woman with a fallen chin and a face like
yellow parchment sat huddled in the chair.
Peter spoke to her. "I hope you don't mind our taking shelter here, whilst
the storm passes.
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