The highway to the East Coast which ran through the borough of Ebbfield had always been a main road and even now, despite the vast garages, the pylons and the gaily painted factory glasshouses which had sprung up beside it, there still remained an occasional trace of past cultures.

When she moves from anthropological classification to fantasy, her figures adapt, evolutionlike, to the tasks at hand.

The old Welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with candle-grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out.

In the seclusion of the latticed fern house, now that dusk had fallen, he lit his pipe[.]