The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Was the girl seriously expecting him to pull the trigger? Lord, but she had courage! ‘Shoot, then,’ urged the lady. Caliban absolutely crowed with delight. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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