It’s empty where kings live.

The terrace and the whole place, the lawn and the garden beyond it, all I could see of the park, were empty with a great emptiness.

They stood aloof, the scars remaining,—
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder:
A dreary sea now flows between.

The gray silence, the gray waves, the gray wastes of the sea.

They stood aloof the scars remaining. Like cliffs which had been rent asunder.

This is a grassy ghetto, and no home.

Nobody worth a damn could ever come from such a place. It was nothing, like most places and people are nothing.

The house on The Crescent, stepped into the hillside, had no face.

the country could not reap the benefits of the beaches because they did not appear attractive to people, particularly tourists.

Gloomy calm of idle vacancy.

Probably, since human society began, it had seen no such curious spectacle as the houses of the San Francisco millionaires on Nob Hill.

There was nothing there except some woods with a lunatic asylum and a graveyard in the middle.

The world is a navy in an empty ocean.

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.