Who is she? A heliotype diva, broken free? Or the runaway daughter of a swaggering, bilious lord?

His ears filled with a dense, hollow din, and gelid waves breathed on his brow.

One after another, the lugubrious, iron-colored German carriages moved past.

the play of light delicately dappling the white topside of a yacht

The Thunder-god, a white-haired giant with a furious beard blown back over his shoulder by the wind, dressed in the flying folds of a dazzling raiment

Her face remained within a somewhat swarthy shadow, and only her forehead was bathed by the levigate light.

It was a glorious evening, I recall. I was not alone. Yes, a woman—but that’s a different libretto.

for we authors in exile are supposed to possess a lofty pudicity of expression

The identical newspaper seller uttered his hollow crepuscular cry.

a novella he had excitedly and hopefully composed, whose publication the previous year had done nothing to enhance his secure but pallid reputation.