"Those black scarfs hurt me," she said, and the July morning grew misty.

"It's not death to marry the man one loves!" The coach rolled down the drive to the gate, and out upon the sunny road.

The dust rose in clouds, whitening the elder, the stickweed, and the blackberry bushes.

The locusts shrilled in the parching trees.

The sky was cloudless and intensely blue, marked only by the slow circling of a buzzard far above the pine-tops.