Penrose:
"We were talking the other day of the Tower, on the heath, you know, by
old Saffron's cottage, and none of us knew its history. You know all
about Inkston from time out o' mind. Have you got any story about it?"
Mr. Penrose practiced as a solicitor in London, but lived in a little old
house near the Irechesters' in the village street, and devoted his
leisure to the antiquities and topography of the neighborhood; his lore
was plentiful and curious, if not important. He was a small, neat old
fellow, with white whiskers of the antique cut, a thin voice, and a dry
cackling laugh.
"There was a story about it, and one quite fit for Christmas evening, if
you're in the mood to hear it."
The thin voice was penetrating. At the promise of a story silence fell on
the company, and Mr. Penrose told his tale, vouching as his authority an
erstwhile "oldest inhabitant," now gathered to his fathers; for the tale
dated back some eighty years, to the date of the ancient's early manhood.
A seafaring man had suddenly appeared, out of space, as it were, at
Inkston, and taken the cottage.
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