Book One — The Three Women

I. A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression

           

           ASaturdayafternooninNovemberwasapproachingthetimeoftwilight,andthevasttractofunenclosedwildknownasEgdonHeathembrowneditselfmomentbymoment.Overheadthehollowstretchofwhitishcloudshuttingouttheskywasasatentwhichhadthewholeheathforitsfloor.

           Theheavenbeingspreadwiththispallidscreenandtheearthwiththedarkestvegetation,theirmeeting-lineatthehorizonwasclearlymarked.Insuchcontrasttheheathworetheappearanceofaninstalmentofnightwhichhadtakenupitsplacebeforeitsastronomicalhourwascome:darknesshadtoagreatextentarrivedhereon,whiledaystooddistinctinthesky.Lookingupwards,afurze-cutterwouldhavebeeninclinedtocontinuework;lookingdown,hewouldhavedecidedtofinishhisfaggotandgohome.Thedistantrimsoftheworldandofthefirmamentseemedtobeadivisionintimenolessthanadivisioninmatter.Thefaceoftheheathbyitsmerecomplexionaddedhalfanhourtoevening;itcouldinlikemannerretardthedawn,saddennoon,anticipatethefrowningofstormsscarcelygenerated,andintensifytheopacityofamoonlessmidnighttoacauseofshakinganddread.

           Infact,preciselyatthistransitionalpointofitsnightlyrollintodarknessthegreatandparticulargloryoftheEgdonwastebegan,andnobodycouldbesaidtounderstandtheheathwhohadnotbeenthereatsuchatime.Itcouldbestbefeltwhenitcouldnotclearlybeseen,itscompleteeffectandexplanationlyinginthisandthesucceedinghoursbeforethenextdawn;then,andonlythen,didittellitstruetale.

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