Then came the night of the first falling star.

It was seen early in the morning,

rushing over Winchester eastward, a line of flame high in the atmosphere. Hundreds
must have seen it and taken it for an ordinary falling star. It seemed that it fell
to earth about one hundred miles east of him.
He heard the loud impact before he ever saw the result. It had been so loud that it
had actually made him jump back in his seat. As soon as he recovered from the
surprise, he saw the crack in the windshield. It seemed to be an analogy of the
current condition of his life.
The boy walked down the street in a carefree way, playing without notice of what
was about him. He didn't hear the sound of the car as his ball careened into the
road. He took a step toward it, and in doing so sealed his fate.
Out of another, I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging
to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the
house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but
John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my
imaginative power and habit of story-making a nervous weakness like mine is sure to
lead to all manner of excited fancies and that I ought to use my will and good
sense to check the tendency. So I try.
Indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her
consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow,
like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it
was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at
Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was
just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting
her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps.