The winter was come, and it was a cold day.

There were no boats on the river.

He walked up the bank to the garden where was the house in which she had lived; but the place was now deserted.

On the garden gate he sat down, taking me from his pocket; and here, I think, he meant to recall the days that were dead.

But a cold, piercing wind was blowing, and many times he looked at his watch, putting it to his ear as if he thought it had stopped.