The black, huge barns, around seemed to his weary sense oppressive in their nearness.
The waggon disappeared down the dark lane.

The farmer talked more roughly, now that kindness no longer restrained him, of the night's event.

Trenholme leaned against a white-washed wall, silent but not listening.

He almost wondered he did not faint with the pain in his ankle; the long strain he had put upon the hurt muscle rendered it almost agonising, but faintness did not come: it seldom does to those who sigh for it, as for the wings of a dove, that they may go far away with it and be at rest.

The farmer shut the stable door, put out the light, and Trenholme limped out the house with him to wait for his brother..