He pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulder. But one single pace forward, and the wind sliced at him like a scythe, and drove him back to the shelter of the wall. It was unquestionably the position indicated for the time; he might change it by turning his left shoulder to the wall and propping himself on the right leg, with sundry shakings of the left, to restore the circulation as much as might be. “Who leaves the house in weather like this?” he said. “Moderate activity is all right; but not too much craving for adventure, no coying with the bride of the storm. Quiet, quiet⁠—if the head be heavy, let it droop. The wall is good, a certain warmth seems to come from the logs⁠—probably the feeling is entirely subjective.⁠—Ah, the trees, the trees! Oh, living climate of the living⁠—how sweet it smells!”