They are skilled navigators, those Trumet road mosquitoes, and they know the advantage of snug harbors under hat brims and behind spreading ears.

And each individual smashed by a frantic palm leaves a thousand blood relatives to attend his funeral and exact revenge after the Corsican fashion.
Now, in December, there were, of course, no mosquitoes, but the wind tore across those bare hilltops in gusts that rocked the buggy on its springs.

The bayberry bushes huddled and crouched before it.

The sky was covered with tumbling, flying clouds, which changed shape continually, and ripped into long, fleecy ravelings, that broke loose and pelted on until merged into the next billowy mass.

The bay was gray and white, and in the spots where an occasional sunbeam broke through and struck it, flashed like a turned knife blade.
Bailey drove with one hand and held his hat on his head with the other.
The road had been deeply rutted during the November rains, and now the ruts were frozen.