Anticipating the rising of the wind, that very evening, Cassy had been up and opened the
garret window. Of course, the moment the doors were opened, the wind had drafted down, and extinguished the light.
The last rays of the sun, entering through the
garret window, were fading from Ginevra's face as she sat sleeping in her chair, and holding her child upon her breast.
It was a modest building, not very straight, not large, not tall; not bold-faced, with great staring windows, but a shy, blinking house, with a conical roof going up into a peak over its
garret window of four small panes of glass, like a cocked hat on the head of an elderly gentleman with one eye.
Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a
garret window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart.