She bent her head to the blast, and walked on.

She had no desire for shelter.

She would like to get wet to the skin, take a violent cold, go into a consumption, and die in a fortnight.

The wind whistled about her bonnet, dashed the rain-drops clanging on the drum-tight silk of her parasol, and made of her skirts fetters and chains.

She could hardly get along, and was just going to take down her parasol, when suddenly, where was neither house nor hedge nor tree, came a lull.