Sincerity [antikvár]

CHAPTER IA wet, winter dusk tangled itself among the oak woods west of Navestock town, making the blacks and greys of the landscape seem colder and more sad. The grinding of wheels and the "pludpludding" of drenched horses drifted along the high road with the galloping of the wind. Old Tom Tyser, muffled up on the box of the "White Hart" coach, shook the rain from his hat-brim, and grumbled."Newer knowed such weather! I've come home these seven days a-sittin' in a puddle."Wet it was, and Navestock Valley might have been some primeval sea-bottom suddenly upheaved, still drenched and running with the backwash of the sea. The land lay sodden and tired; the trees shook the rain from their boughs with petulant imprecations. As for the grey coach-horses, their ears flopped dejectedly, and did not prick up at the sound of the postman's horn. Mr. Wink-worth's red-wheeled coach laboured, and squeaked, and strained. A decrepit veteran, it crawled daily between the railway at Wannington and Navestock town, its black panels needing paint, its musty interior smelling of stable dung and straw.The passenger on the box beside old Tom Tyser saw Navestock town draw out of the dusk like a great rock in a grey sea. At first it was a mere black mass in the valley, but lights began to blink as the coach passed the lodge gates of "Pardons" and swung along beside the swollen river. Darkness blotted out the cloud scud above the