The golden light had faded, the high white clouds had swallowed the blue.

There would soon be storm.
In the wood--strangest of ironies--there had been peace.
Now he started down the road again and was conscious, as the wood slipped back into distance, of some vague alarm.
3 The world was now rapidly transformed.

There had been promised a blaze of glory, but the sun, red and angry, had been drowned by the thick grey clouds that now flooded the air--dimly seen for an instant outlined against the grey--then suddenly non-existent, leaving a world like a piece of crumpled paper white and dark to all its boundaries.
The snow fell now more swiftly but always gently, imperturbably--almost it might seem with the whispering intention of some important message.
Olva was intensely cold.

He buttoned his coat tightly up to his ears, but nevertheless the air was so biting that it hurt.

Bunker, with his head down, drove against the snow that was coming now ever more thickly.
The peace that there had been in the little wood was now utterly gone.
The air seemed full of voices.