Explore "The Seven Streams" by Warwick Deeping on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Over the madhouse in the mere the noon sun had travelled, drawing the grey mists up from the meadows, glistening upon the pinnacles of the wooded hills. No wind was moving-the withered sedges were silent in the shallows, and no ripples barred the water with dim gold.
From the island came a solitary cry, the scream of a living thing in pain, shrill, piteous, and discordant. All the dismal babels of the place seemed to wake at the cry like the screaming of birds when some savage spoiler haunts the woods. The impassive trees moved never a finger, though echo veiled among the hills.