The empty carriage is close to the curb-stone, with the door swinging
open as if to urge the owners to hurry and take possession. The
high-stepping trotters are covered with blankets to protect them from
the piercing cold, and, with their heads drooping, are either asleep
or wondering why they are not put into the stable to take their
night's rest; and the coachman is dancing about on the pavement to
keep his feet warm--not by any means a merry kind of dance, although
he moves about pretty briskly. He has taken off his gloves, for they
seem to make his hands colder, and now he has thrust one hand into his
pocket and is blowing on the other with all his might. His whip, that
curled so defiantly in the air, is now pushed under his arm, and the
lash is trailing, limp and draggled, on the stones. He is warmly clad,
and his great-coat has three capes, but all cannot put sufficient heat
into his body, for it is a bitter cold night, and the wind comes
howling down the street as if it would like to bite off everybody's
ears and noses. It shakes the leafless branches of the trees until
they all seem to be moaning and groaning together.
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