It was a great, big, cold house, with a little wet garden, in which there grew only one row of peas, and a half-extinguished gillyflower; and yet, in the very next garden, which lay higher, there were hedges of monthly roses, and trees full of yellow lemons. These last, spite of the incessant rain, looked vigorous; the roses, on the contrary, looked as if they had lain for eight days in the sea.
The evenings were so lonesome in the cold large rooms; the black chimney yawning between the windows, and without were rain and mist. All the doors were fastened with locks and iron bolts; but what good could that do? The wind whistled in a tone sharp enough to cut one in two through the cracks in the doors; the thin faggots kindled in the chimney, but did not send out their warmth very far; the cold stone floor, the damp walls and the lofty ceiling seemed only suited to the summer season.
If I would make myself right comfortable, I was obliged to put on my traveling fur-boots, my great coat, my cloak, and my fur-cap,—yes, and then I could do tolerably well.
