An old gentleman with a delicate face, who wore his own white hair, was bending over a book at a desk.

The room was warmly furnished, the door of the stove stood open, and Wogan could see the logs blazing merrily.

A chill wind swept across the lawn, very drear and ghostly.

Wogan crept closer to the window.

A great boar-hound rose at the old man's feet and growled; then the old man rose, and crossing to the window pressed his face against the panes with his hands curved about his eyes.