Then, without saying a word, they went off in different directions under the lashing snow.
It was a perfect tempest.

On these heights, in the midst of this open space, the fine snow revolved round and round as if the wind came from the four corners of heaven.

You could not see ten paces off, everything was confused in the midst of this flying dust.

The surroundings had disappeared, the Boulevard seemed to be dead, as if the storm had stretched the silence of its white sheet over the hiccoughs of the last drunkards.

Gervaise still went on, blinded, lost.