Explore "Tatterdemalion" by John Galsworthy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
From that garden seat one could see the old low house of pinkish brick, with a path of queer-shaped flagstones running its length, and the tall grey chapel from which came the humming and chanting and organ drone of the Confirmation Service. But for that, and the voices of two gardeners working below us among the fruits and flowers, the July hush was complete. And suddenly one became aware of being watched.
That thin white windmill on the hill!