Explore "Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood" by George MacDonald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
How dreary the old house looked as we approached it through the gathering darkness! All the light appeared to come from the snow which rested wherever it could lie -- on roofs and window ledges and turrets. Even on the windward walls, every little roughness sustained its own frozen patch, so that their grey was spotted all over with whiteness. Not a glimmer shone from the windows.
"Nobody lives _there_, father," I said, -- "surely?"