To the cabin Kent groped his way, and knocked, and it was Marette who opened the door for him and stepped back for him to enter.

Like a great wet dog he came in, doubling until his hands almost touched the floor.
He sensed the incongruity of it, the misplacement of his overgrown body in this playhouse thing, and he grinned through the trickles of wet that ran down his face, and tried to see.

Marette had taken off her turban and rain-coat, and she, too, stooped low in the four-feet space of the cabin--but not so ridiculously low as Kent.

He dropped on his knees again.

And then he saw that in the tiny stove a fire was burning.
The crackle of it rose above the beat of the rain on the roof, and the air was already mellowing with the warmth of it.