She might be living in a poor cabin, doing all the housework herself, and her husband only a fisherman, but he had treated her like a lady.
And so the afternoon passed.

The outlying fog began to roll in at the Golden Gate, obliterating the headland and stretching a fleecy bar across the channel as if shutting out from vulgar eyes the way that he had gone.

Night fell, but Zephas had not yet come.

This was unusual, for he was generally as regular as the afternoon "trades" which blew him there.

There was nothing to detain him in this weather and at this season.