About Winter in the Nineteenth Century

The first snow fell, followed by the second, third, and a long winter dragged on with its bitter cold, snowdrifts and icicles. I do not like winter and I do not believe someone who says he loves her. It is cold outside, the rooms in a fumy mood, galoshes wet. It is harsh as mother-in-law, or whiny like an old maid, with its magical moonlit nights, troika drivings, hunting, concerts and balls, winter can be boring very quickly and lasts too long, to poison more than one homeless, flimsy life.
Late-blooming Flowers by Anton Chekhov

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