The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
Amid a wind of such deep chill that bones could snap and blood freeze still, the beach ball blew in its panicked dance. Whipped by a howling gale, deaf even to itself, all catching hands had been vanquished to firesides and Christmas hearths. And so it tumbled, on and on, its merry never-fade colours singing out. Then it wedged beneath a hut of peeling paint and shattered windows and, as if a ghostly Jeeves stood there, its door swung smoothly wide.
Here comes the winter wind, each snowman's unseen scarf, to stir the snow, to wake the trees in a percussion of chattering.
The wintry wind comes sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, yet ever with a chill that brings a crispness to the day.
Through the white-capped mountains came a river of pristine air, one that carried plumes of breath clean out of sight before the next one came.
A wintry wind swept across the land with a bold honesty, a rawness that brought one's soul into the gentle cloud-filtered rays.
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