Eleven: Far From The Madding Crowd: Thomas Hardy - Fanny Robins
Outskirts of the city of Melchester. A snowy evening. Darkness and gloom. A public path, on its left hand was a river, and behind it a high wall. On the right was a tract of land partly meadow and partly moor. And the moor reaches to a heathen with ups and downs. In winter, the place is marked by snakes, ferns, pools and puddles and the rising of fogs, and the wood eaten by fungi, all hidden by by snow. The cloud above was low, as if it were the roof of a large dark cavern gradually sinking in upon its floor. The earth, and everything on it and snow and sky appeared a single mass. The wall was darker than the sky; the river was darker than the wall. The facade of this convergence was occasionally notched and pronged by chimneys here and there. The neighbouring clock struck ten. The bell had lost its voice because of the muffling snow. Not long after, when the snow abated, a form moved by the brink of the river. It moved slowly, but without much exertion. It seemed to count "one, ...