" So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent courage. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. I don’t care WHAT happens. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead.
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