The bay was gray and lonely, and the fish weirs along the outer bar were lost in the mist.

The flowers in the Atkins urns were draggled and beaten down.

Only the iron dogs glistened undaunted as the wet ran off their newly painted backs.
The air was heavy, and the salty flavor of the flats might almost be tasted in it.
Captain Cy was in the sitting room, as usual.

His spirits were as gray as the weather.

He was actually lonesome for the first time since his return home.