Once a furious gust sent her against him. The wind wrapped
her damp skirts round him and he felt her body soft and pliable. The
grasp of her hands was tight on his arms and close to his ear he heard
her laughing. For a second the quick pulse of the lightning showed her
to him, her hair glued to her cheeks, her wet bodice like a thin web
molding her shoulders, and as the darkness shut her out he again heard
her laughter broken by panting breaths.
"Isn't it glorious," she cried, struggling away from him. "That nearly
took me off my feet. My skirts are all twined round you."
They got the tent down, writhing and leaping like a live thing frantic
to escape. Conquered, a soaked mass on the ground, he pulled the
bedding from beneath it and she grasped the blankets in her arms and
ran for the wagon. She went against the rain, leaning forward on it,
her skirts torn back and whipped up by the wind into curling eddies.
Her head, the hair pressed flat to it, was sleek and wet as a seal's,
and as she ran she turned and looked at him over her shoulder, a wild,
radiant look that he never forgot.
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