It never occurred to him to consider whether it suited his wife and daughter.

It was a house, and it was furnished; what more was necessary?
It was nothing to him if his wife and daughter were unhappy.

It was nothing to him if the sea roared and the house shook as he sat poring at nights over his parchments in the dead artist's studio.

He had other things to occupy his mind than Nature's brutality or the feelings of womanhood.
Sisily had climbed down to the foot of the rocks.

She was sitting in her favourite spot, a spur of rock overhanging a green nook in the broken ugliness of the cliffs, sheltered from the sea by an encircling arm of rock, and reached by a steep path down the cliff.