The wind tapped angrily at the windows of Flint House, the rain fell stealthily, the sea made a droning uneasy sound.

The fire which burnt on the kitchen hearth was a poor one, a sullen thing of green boughs and coal which refused to harmonize, but spluttered and fizzed angrily.

The coal smouldered blackly, but sometimes cracked with a startling report.

When this happened, a crooked bough sticking up in the middle of the fire, like a curved fang, would jump out on to the hearthstone as though frightened by the noise.
Thalassa sat on one side of the fire, his wife on the other.

Her eyes were rapt and vacant; he sat with frowning brows, deep in thought.