Explore "Mary Olivier: a Life" by May Sinclair on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The yellowish white sky had come close up to the house, a dirty blanket let down outside the window. The tree made a black pattern on it. Clear glass beads hung in a row from the black branch, each black twig was tipped with a glass bead. When Jenny opened the window there was a queer cold smell like the smell of the black water in the butt.
Thin white powder fluttered out of the blanket and fell. A thick powder. A white fluff that piled itself in a ridge on the windowsill and curved softly in the corner of the sash. It was cold, and melted on your tongue with a taste of windowpane.