It stood in a little street that joined Cambridge to the country.

At one end of the prim little road the lamps stopped abruptly and a white chalk path ran amongst dark common to a distant wood.
At the other end a broader road with tram-lines crossed.

The house was built by itself, back from the highway, with a tiny drive and some dark laurels.

It was always gloomy and apparently unkept.

The autumn leaves were dull and sodden upon the drive; the bell and knocker upon the heavy door, from which the paint was worn in places, were rusty.