“March, rain at the windows, and he had to be up at five the next morning. He listened to the click and patter of drops against the panes.”

“With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.”

“There was nothing separate about her days. Like drops on the window-pane, they ran together and trickled away.”

“He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.”

“Go to hell, I whispered. The night darker than ever, leaned in against the window panes.”

“Clouds overlaid the sky as with a shroud of mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening under a fine drizzle which was beating against the window-panes, and streaking their dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold, dirty moisture. Only a scanty modicum of daylight entered to war with the trembling rays of the ikon lamp. The dying man threw me a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment he had passed away.”