The widower only sighed and puffed his cigar fiercely out of the open window. Perhaps he was thinking of that… — Mary Elizabeth Braddon
The widower only sighed and puffed his cigar fiercely out of the open window. Perhaps he was thinking of that far-away time—little better than five years ago, in fact; but such an age gone by to him—when he first met the woman for whom he had worn crape round his hat three days before.
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More from this book
Phoebe Marks was a person who never lost her individuality. Silent and self-constrained, she seemed to hold herself within herself, and take no color from the outer world.
He forgot that love, which is a madness, and a scourge, and a fever, and a delusion, and a snare, is also a mystery, and very imperfectly understood by everyone except the individual sufferer who writhes under its tortures.
The wind came whistling up across the frosty open country, and through the leafless woods, and rattled fiercely at the window-frames.
