I don't like walking." "Well, I reckon it's easier to sit anyway.

We'll go inside." "No, if I've got to talk to you I'd rather do it out of doors," she replied, turning back toward the gate.
"That's right.

The air's fine.

I shouldn't wonder if the bad weather ain't all over." "I don't mind the bad weather," she retorted pettishly because it was the only remark she could think of that sounded disagreeable.
They passed through the gate, and walked rapidly in the direction of the Washington monument, which lifted a splendid silhouette against a deep blue background of sky.

It was one of those soft, opal-tinted February days which fall like a lyric interlude in the gray procession of winter.
The sunshine lay like flowing gold on the pavement; and the breeze that stirred now and then in the leafless boughs of the trees was as roving and provocative as the air of spring.