The sky was a cold iron-grey, like the underside of a shield. A sharp breeze lifted the hems of skirts and rattled the leaves on the immature trees; a spiteful, chill wind that sought out your weakest places, the nape of your neck and your knees, and which denied you the comfort of dreaming, of retreating a little from reality.
J. K. RowlingDo I look stupid?" snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache.
J. K. Rowling