There were no recesses along its roughly boarded walls for vagrant and unprofitable shadows to lurk in the daily sunshine.

No projection for the wind by night to grow musical over, to wail, whistle, or whisper to; only a long wooden shelf containing a chilly-looking tin basin and a bar of soap.

Its uncurtained windows were red with the sinking sun, as though bloodshot and inflamed from a too-long unlidded existence.

The tracks of cattle led to its front door, firmly closed against the rattling wind.
To avoid being confounded with this familiar element, I walked to the rear of the house, which was connected with a smaller building by a slight platform.

A grizzled, hard-faced old man was standing there, and met my salutation with a look of inquiry, and, without speaking, led the way to the principal room.