Here on these lonely stretches of empty land I met no one, saw no living thing save the seagulls.

It was almost like a corner of some forgotten land.

These walks, and an occasional few hours' reading, were my sole recreation.
It was late in the afternoon when I saw a shadow pass my window, and immediately afterwards there was a timid knock at the door.

Grooton had gone on his daily pilgrimage with letters to the village, so I was obliged to open it myself.

To my surprise it was Blanche Moyat who stood upon the threshold.