A blue misty obscurity pervaded the atmosphere, into which the sun thrust oblique staves of light.

It was a street for a mediaevalist to revel in, toss up his hat and shout hurrah in, send for his luggage, come and live in, die and be buried in.
She had never supposed such a street to exist outside the imaginations of antiquarians.

Smells direct from the sixteenth century hung in the air in all their original integrity and without a modern taint.

The faces of the people in the doorways seemed those of individuals who habitually gazed on the great Francis, and spoke of Henry the Eighth as the king across the sea.
She inquired of a coppersmith if an English artist had been seen here lately.

With a suddenness that almost discomfited her he announced that such a man had been seen, sketching a house just below--the 'Vieux Manoir de Francois premier.' Just turning to see that her aunt was following in the fly, Paula advanced to the house.