This scene reminded me of one of those dreadful
nightmares, where we dream we are shut in a little room, the walls of
which are closing in upon us, and so impressed me that the memory of it
served as a warning in an adventure that befell me later on. So I gave up
reading and stepped out into the street. It was a poor street at best,
though once, no doubt, it had been finer. Now, there were not two hundred
souls in Moonfleet, and yet the houses that held them straggled sadly
over half a mile, lying at intervals along either side of the road.
Nothing was ever made new in the village; if a house wanted repair badly,
it was pulled down, and so there were toothless gaps in the street, and
overrun gardens with broken-down walls, and many of the houses that yet
stood looked as though they could stand but little longer.
The sun had set; indeed, it was already so dusk that the lower or
sea-end of the street was lost from sight. There was a little fog or
smoke-wreath in the air, with an odour of burning weeds, and that first
frosty feeling of the autumn that makes us think of glowing fires and
the comfort of long winter evenings to come. All was very still, but I
could hear the tapping of a hammer farther down the street, and walked
to see what was doing, for we had no trades in Moonfleet save that of
fishing.
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