It had grown darker as they talked, and the wind was sawing and the sawdust was whirling outside paler windows. The underlying churchyard was already settling into deep dim shade, and the shade was creeping up to the housetops among which they sat. "As if," said Eugene, "as if the churchyard ghosts were rising."

The wind's in the east. . . . I am always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in the east.

We've been wearing sweaters and hats. We had plastic put over the windows outside too.

Huge knots of sea-weed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its own might and strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise of feasting and revelry.

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

These are but wild and whirling words.