Explore "The Moving Finger" by Natalie Sumner Lincoln on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A ROW of beautiful trees ran the length of Thornedale Lodge, facing the entrance on the south. They had been planted generations before, and, no allowance made for their increase in height and circumference, towering above the old house, they were landmarks for miles around. Their branches touched the galleries and windows, and in summer their foliage shut out much light and sunshine, but Beverly Thorne scoffed at the idea of dampness and refused to cut down the trees, as his father had refused before him. The stars in their constellation were not more fixed than the customs which had obtained in the old Virginia home.
Beverly Thorne crossed the lawn and entered his house, and an anxious-faced negro butler, grown gray in service, came forward to meet him.