I saw the sun set behind the water,--a Byron sunset,--and in the hope of seeing just such another I bought this shack.

I did those things once for want of something better.

Look at it," he said, and turned the car through a rustic gate, alive with honeysuckle.
It was a bungalow, put up on a space cleared among a wood of young trees that was carpeted with ferns.

It might have been built for a poet or a novelist or just an ordinary muscular man who loved the water and the silences and the sense of being on the edge of the world.

It was a bungalow of logs, roughly constructed and saved from utter banality by being almost completely clothed in wisteria.