Sharpe saw it. A long
stretch of bleak, desolate, windy road, a desolate, salty marsh, ghostly
woods, and the wide, dreary sea. Over all, this afternoon, a sunless
sky, threatening rain, and a grim old pile of buildings fronting the sea
view.
"A lonesome place," Mrs. Susan Sharpe said, as if in spite of
herself--"an awfully lonesome place!"
Dr. Oleander looked at her suspiciously as he drew up before the
frowning gate.
"It is lonely," he said, carelessly. "I told you so, you remember; but,
from its very loneliness, all the better for my too excitable patient."
Mrs. Sharpe's face seemed to say she thought it might be more conducive
to begetting melancholy madness than curing it, but her tongue said
nothing. Two big dogs, barking furiously, came tumbling round the angle
of the house. Dr. Oleander struck at them with his whip.
"Down, Tiger! Silence, Nero, you overgrown brute!" he cried, with
an angry oath. "Come along, Mrs. Sharpe. There's no occasion to be
alarmed; they won't touch you."
Mrs. Sharpe, despite this assurance, looking mortally afraid, kept close
to the doctor, and stood gazing around her while waiting to be admitted.
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