“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. By instinct. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. This—all this swamps them. ‘It is necessary that one is at all times ready to protect oneself,’ explained the young lady flatly. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated.
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