There never was a face so battered by wind and weather as that of old Peter, the owner of the ruin.

His eyes were so light a grey as to appear all but colourless.

He wore a smock-frock the hue of dirt itself, and his hands were ever in his pockets as he walked through rain and snow beside his cart, hauling flints from the pits upon the Downs.
If the history of the cottage-folk is inquired into it will often be found that they have descended from well-to-do positions in life--not from extravagance or crime, or any remarkable piece of folly, but simply from a long-continued process of muddling away money.

When the windmill was new, Peter's forefathers had been, for village people well off.

The family had never done anything to bring themselves into disgrace; they had never speculated; but their money had been gradually muddled away, leaving the last little better than a labourer.