Above the head of my spruce white bed hung a scroll, bearing a damnatory quotation from Scripture in emblazoned letters of red and black.

The dismal presence of Miss Meadowcroft had passed over my bedroom, and had blighted it.

My spirits sank as I looked round me.

Supper-time was still an event in the future.

I lighted the candles and took from my portmanteau what I firmly believe to have been the first French novel ever produced at Morwick Farm.