One SITTAFORD HOUSE
Major Burnaby drew on his gum boots, buttoned his overcoat collar roundhis neck, took from a shelf near the door a hurricane lantern, and cau-tiously opened the front door of his little bungalow¹ and peered out.
The scene that met his eyes was typical of the English countryside as de-picted on Xmas cards and in old-fashioned melodramas². Everywhere wassnow, deep drifts of it—no mere³ powdering an inch or two thick. Snowhad fallen all over England for the last four days, and up here on thefringe of Dartmoor it had attained⁵ a depth of several feet. All over Englandhouseholders were groaning⁶ over burst pipes, and to have a plumberfriend (or even a plumber’s mate) was the most coveted⁷ of all distinctions.
Up here, in the tiny village of Sittaford, at all times remote from theworld, and now almost completely cut off, the rigours of winter were avery real problem.
Major Burnaby, however, was a hardy⁸ soul. He snorted twice, gruntedonce, and marched resolutely⁹ out into the snow.
His destination was not far away. A few paces along a winding¹⁰ lane,then in at a gate, and so up a drive partially¹¹ swept clear of snow to a houseof some considerable size built of granite¹².
The door was opened by a neatly¹³ clad parlourmaid. The Major was di-vested of his British Warm, his gum boots and his

分享到：