"Here."
"Mister;" the voice of her was nearer. "Where are—you—?"
He could not see in front of him. He felt that she was close.
"Here;—little girl."
He saw the faint outline of her shadow then through the obliterating denseness of the mist.
"Some fog; ain't it, Mister?"
"Stay where—you are. There's the precipice."
"I ain't afraid of no precipice."
"Stay—where—you—are!"
He could hear the dripping of the mist over the window ledges. And then he thought he heard, smothered by the weight of the fog, the pounding of the sea.