Her letters to him remained unanswered; the last one he had burned unread.

He was sick of the devious crooked paths he had trodden; he might not be just the stuff of which saints are made, but there was the hope in his heart of better things than he had yet known.
At about the time Mr.Shrimplin was attacking his Thanksgiving turkey, North, from his window, watched the leaden clouds that overhung the housetops.

From the frozen dirt of the unpaved streets the keen wind whipped up scanty dust clouds, mingling them with sudden flurries of fine snow.

Save for the passing of an occasional pedestrian who breasted the gale with lowered head, the Square was deserted.

Staring down on it, North drummed idly on the window-pane.