The Doings of Raffles Haw by Arthur Conan Doyle

“I’m afraid that he won’t come,” said Laura McIntyre, in a disconsolate voice.
“Why not?”
“Oh, look at the weather; it is something too awful.”
As she spoke a whirl of snow beat with a muffled patter against the cosy red-curtained window, while a long blast of wind shrieked and whistled through the branches of the great white-limbed elms which skirted the garden.