While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet weather down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling--drip, drip, drip--by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pavement, the Ghost's Walk. The weather is so very bad down in Lincolnshire that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being fine again. Not that there is any superabundant life of imagination on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and, truly, even if he were, would not do much for it in that particular), but is in Paris with my Lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon Chesney Wold.

While Esther sleeps, it is still wet weather down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling - drip, drip, drip - by day and night upon the broad stone-flagged terrace-pavement, the Ghost's Walk. The weather is so very bad there that no-one can imagine its ever being fine again. Sir Leicester is not here, but is in Paris with my Lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon Chesney Wold.
