Explore "Matt" by Robert W. Buchanan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The afternoon was still very warm, but a grey mist, drifting from the Irish Channel and sailing eastward over the low-lying Island of Anglesea, was beginning to scatter a thin penetrating drizzle on the driver of the caravan.
To right and left of the highway stretched a bleak and bare prospect of marshland and moorland, closed to the west by a sky of ever-deepening redness, and relieved here and there by black clumps of stunted woodland. Here and there peeped a solitary farmhouse, with outlying fields of swampy greenness, where lean and spectral cattle were lugubriously grazing; and ever and anon came a glimpse of some lonely lake or tarn, fringed all round with thick sedges, and dotted with water-lilies. The road was as desolate as the prospect, with not a living soul upon it, far as the eye could see. To all this, however, the driver of the caravan paid little attention, owing to the simple fact that he was fast asleep.