He looked at Marette.
Her wet hair was still clinging to her face, her feet and arms and part of her body were wet; but her eyes were shining, and she was smiling at him.

She seemed to him, in this moment, like a child that was glad it had found refuge.

He had thought that the terror of the night would show in her face, but it was gone.

She was not thinking of the thunder and the lightning, the black trail, or of Kedsty lying dead in his bungalow.

She was thinking of him.
He laughed outright.