He threw down his book and went out.

There was a long garden that ran to a field.

It was a grey, cold day, with a sharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire.

Two fields away Bestwood began, with a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of which rose the church tower and the spire of the Congregational Chapel.

And beyond went woods and hills, right away to the pale grey heights of the Pennine Chain.
Paul looked down the garden for his mother.