The scenery outside the window kept changing as the carriage moved forward, and the air inside the cabin was somewhat oppressive, with only the dull sound of the wheels grinding against the muddy road.
The cold wind on the snowy ground was like a knife, slicing past the carriage windows, producing a crisp whistling sound.
The carriage stopped on a small snowy hill, imparting an icy, oppressive feeling. The snow on the window had erased the glow of sunlight, leaving only scattered snowflakes glittering on the glass, producing a piercing sound.
Arthur was still talking extensively about the Foreign Office's personnel appointments, yet Blackwell's hand reached into the briefcase pocket and extracted a yellowed envelope.
The private secretary carefully asked, with a trace of worry that was thinly veiled in his tone, "Sir, have you read this letter?"
