"Good day, sir!" He was gone, disappearing down the long street, into the snow that was now falling like a veil.
Strickland turned homeward.

The snow fell fast and thick in large white flakes.

Glenfernie House rose before him, crowning the craggy hill, the modern building and the remnant of the old castle, not a great place, but an ancient, settled, and rooted, part of a land poor but not without grandeur, not without a rhythm attained between grandeur and homeliness.

The road swept around and up between leafless trees and green cone-bearing ones.

The snow was whitening the branches, the snow wrapped house and landscape in its veil.