It is notoriously the mountain top, the monarch oak that attracts the lightning.

Impossible to think of Hansombody attracting the lightning, with his bedside manner! The Major seated himself in his favourite chair on the terrace, spread his napkin over his knees and mused, while Scipio set out the decanters and glasses.
His gaze, travelling over the low parapet of the quay-wall, rested on the quiet harbour, the ships swinging slowly with the tide, the farther shore touched with the sunset glory.

Evensong, the close of day, the end of deeds, the twilit passing of man--all these the scene, the hour suggested.

And yet (the Major poured out a glass of the green-sealed Madeira) this life was good and desirable.
The Major's garden (as I have said) was a narrow one, in width about half the depth of his house, terminating in the "Terrace" and a narrow quay-door, whence a ladder led down to the water.

Alongside this garden ran the rear wall of the Custom House, which abutted over the water, also with a ladder reaching down to the foreshore, and not five yards from the Mayor's.