Horace tore it up and threw the pieces along the road.

There was a thunder-shower coming up.

It scattered the few blossoms remaining on the trees, and many leaves, and the bits of the civilly hypocritical note of thanks and rejection flew with them upon the wings of the storm wind.
Horace gazed up at the clouds overhead, which looked like the rapids of some terrible, heavenly river overlapping each other in shell-like shapes and moving with intense fury.

He thought of Rose, and first hoped that she was in the house, and then reflected that he might as well give up all hope of ever marrying her.

The returned manuscript in his pocket seemed to weigh down his very soul.