The garden was overgrown with weeds and
long grass, standing up in ugly patches beneath their burden of wet
snow. Complete silence reigned over all. There was not a sign of life.
Not even a dog barked. Only, in the distance, the wheels of the
retreating carriage could be heard growing fainter and fainter.
As he stood in the porch, between pillars of rotting wood, listening to
the rain dripping from the roof into the puddles of slushy snow, he was
conscious of a sensation of utter desertion and loneliness such as he
had never before experienced. The forbidding aspect of the house had the
immediate effect of lowering his spirits. It might well have been the
abode of monsters or demons in a child's wonder tale, creatures that
only dared to come out under cover of darkness. He groped for the
bell-handle, or knocker, and finding neither, he raised his stick and
beat a loud tattoo on the door. The sound echoed away in an empty space
on the other side and the wind moaned past him between the pillars as if
startled at his audacity. But there was no sound of approaching
footsteps and no one came to open the door.
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