The town itself spread out before her, an assemblage of red and grey tiled roofs sloping downwards to the curve of the bay, while, on the right, a bold promontory thrust itself into the sea, grimly resisting the perpetual onslaught of the wave.

Through the waning light of the winter's afternoon, Sara could discern the outline of a house limned against the dark background of woods that crowned it.

Linked to the jutting headland, a long range of sea-washed cliffs stretched as far as the eyes could reach.
"That be Monk's Cliff," vouchsafed the driver conversationally.

"Bit of a lonesome place for folks to choose to live at, ain't it ?" "Who lives there ?" asked Sara with interest.
"Gentleman of the name of Trent--queer kind of bloke he must be, too, if all's true they say of 'im.

He's lived there a matter of ten years or more--lives by 'imself with just a man and his wife to do for 'im.