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In the brass rods and finials behind her head, Caro's fingers were vaguely grappled, like those of a woman dreaming.

In the brass rods and finials behind her head, Caro's fingers were vaguely grappled, like those of a woman dreaming.

In the valley a line of osiers flinched at the least breath of air.

They smiled to imagine Tertia on the battlements, peering glassily from behind machicolations.

It was the fate of those mild hills around the Thrale house to be portentous in the view of Edmund Tice.