The door to the library was open.

Fitful red shadows flashed dully from the fireplace across the room, creeping out into the hall and then darting back again as if afraid to venture.

The waning sunlight struggled through a curtained window at the top of the stairs.

There was dusk in the house.

Evening had fallen there.
Anne stood in the middle of the library, divested of her warm fur coat.
Murray was poking the fire, and cheerful flames were leaping upward in response to the call to wake.