Her son would, of course, inherit it, as Captain Penhallow had no child.

"Really a great estate, my dear," his mother had said.

It loomed large in his young imagination.
Who would meet him?
Probably a carriage with the liveried driver and the groom immaculate in white-topped boots, a fur cover on his arm.

It would, of course, be Captain Penhallow who would make him welcome.

Then the cold, which is hostile to imagination, made him shiver as he drew his thin cloak about him and watched the snow squadrons wind-driven and the big flakes blurring his view as they melted on the panes.