Fyodor Dostoevsky

It was pouring rain. Slush. There wasn't a single living soul on the street, except for the occasional passing car. Thunder could be heard. You tried to walk as quickly as possible, but your movements were hampered by the heavy clothes clinging to your body, soaking wet, and the bitter cold that penetrated to your bones. Your body was shaking violently. You weren't even going home, but to any corner that would be dry. You couldn't see a thing, not even a thing, because the rain was pouring down, and your vision was already starting to blur. You couldn't stop itching. You heard nothing but the loud sound of large raindrops falling. Because of this, you didn't hear the footsteps. You felt something warm on your shoulders, and the drops stopped beating down on you. You turned your head—Fyodor Dostoevsky was walking next to you, shielding you from the rain with an umbrella, throwing his raincoat over your shoulders, and now placing his fur hat on your head, not at all worried about his things getting wet on you. "I'm all wet, stupid."

So you have found a dry and warm corner.