April 2.--My feelings are still exceedingly sore. Oh for a cottage in
some wilderness--some vast contiguity of shade--whither I might retire,
like a stricken hart from the herd, and sulk majestically! The very
thing! There rises before me an opportune vision of a certain lonely
farm-house I wot of down by a lonely sea. I discovered it last summer
while staying at Shoreford. I had ridden westward across the marsh lands
of Windle, over the cliffs that form the coastline between this and
Rexingham; and being thirsty, had followed some cows through a
rick-yard, in the hopes of obtaining a glass of milk.
There, behind the hayricks, I had come upon my first view of Down End
Farm; and the picture of its grey stone, lichened walls, red roof, cosy
kitchen and comely mistress, had remained painted on my brain. So, too,
I retained a scrap of my conversation with Mrs. Anderson, and her casual
mention of the London family then occupying her best rooms. "We don't
have many folk at Down End, it being so out of the way, sir; but the
gentleman here now says he do like it, just on account of the solitude
and quiet.
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