That white stare of windows at the moon was undisturbed.
The Downs were like a wavy robe of shadowy grey silk.

No wonder that she had loved to look on them! And it was no wonder that Andrew Hedger enjoyed prime bacon.

Bacon frizzling, fat rashers of real homefed on the fire-none of your foreign-suggested a genial refreshment and resistance to antagonistic elements.

Nor was it, granting health, granting a sharp night--the temperature at least fifteen below zero--an excessive boast for a man to say he could go on eating for a solid hour.
These were notions darting through a half nourished gentleman nipped in the frame by a severely frosty night.

Truly a most beautiful night! She would have delighted to see it here.