It was a wild, cold, seasonable (____) night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back (____) as though the wind had tilted her (____), and a flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny (____) texture. The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. The square, when they got there, was all full of wind (____) and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing (____) themselves along the railing. The softly sighing sea (____) surged gently against the shore. She could see the storm clouds gathering (____). The sky was blackening as he approached. His steps crunched sharply into the shingle as he stamped toward her (____). His eyes were black holes, sucking in light (____). She tensed. He had nearly reached her. Crunch, crunch. She fought the urge to run (____).

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