She was coming toward him.

He bent his head and lowered his umbrella and lost sight of her as they approached, she with the storm behind her, driven with hardly more resistance than the last year's blackened leaves that blew with her, he assailed by it and making the best way he could.

Certainly the wind was taking her part and his, when in another moment her skirt whipped against him and he saw her face glimmer out.

A mere wreck of lines and shadows it seemed in the livid light, with suddenly perceiving eyes and lips that cried his name.
She had on a hat and a cloak, but carried no umbrella, and her hands were bare and wet.

Pitifully the storm blew her into his arms, a tossed and straying thing that could not speak for sobs; pitifully and with a rough incoherent sound he gathered and held her in that refuge.