Nearly all have passed on as if they had been passers-by.
Marie is tired.

She often sits down, with her big cloak and her sensible air; and as she sits she seems like a statue of nature, of space, and the wind.
We do not speak.

We have gone down along the side of the river--slowly, as if we were climbing--towards the stone seat of the wall.

The distances have altered.

This seat, for instance, we meet it sooner than we thought we should, like some one in the dark; but it is the seat all right.