Every thing has a drenched air: each crimson bramble-leaf is clothed in rain-drops, and yet it is not raining.

The air is thick and heavy, and one swallows it like something solid, but it is not raining: in fact, it is an English fine day.
Under the delusive idea that it is warm, or at least not cold, I have protected my face with no veil, my hands with no mittens; so that, long before I reach the shelter of the Portugal laurels that warmly hem in and border Mrs.Huntley's little graveled sweep, the end of my nose feels like an icy promontory at a great distance from me, and my hands do not feel at all.

Mrs.Huntley _is_ at home.

Wise woman! I knew that she would be.

I suppose that I follow on the footsteps of the butler more quickly than is usual, for, as the door opens, and before I can get a view of the inmate or inmates, I hear a hurried noise of scrambling, as of some one suddenly jumping up.