On the porch we shall be out of the rain." She made no further objections and together we stumbled through the wet grass and over Sylvanus's weed-grown flower beds.

I presume I shall never again smell the spicy fragrance of "old maids' pinks" without thinking of that night.
I found the edge of the piazza by the direct process of barking my shins against it, and helped her up on to the creaking boards.

My sanguine statement that we should be out of the rain proved not quite true.

There was a roof above us, but it leaked.

I unfurled the wet umbrella and held it over her head.
For some moments after we reached the piazza neither of us spoke.