There was no warmth or color in earth or sky, no light nor shade within or without, only one monotonous, universal neutral tint over everything.
There was a fierce unrest in the wind-whipped streets: there was a dreary vacant quiet in the gray houses.

When Ah Fe reached the top of the hill, the Mission Ridge was already hidden, and the chill sea breeze made him shiver.

As he put down his basket to rest himself, it is possible that, to his defective intelligence and heathen experience, this "God's own climate," as was called, seemed to possess but scant tenderness, softness, or mercy.

But it is possible that Ah Fe illogically confounded this season with his old persecutors, the schoolchildren, who, being released from studious confinement, at this hour were generally most aggressive.

So he hastened on, and turning a corner, at last stopped before a small house.
It was the usual San Franciscan urban cottage.