"Well, she's your own daughter, so I suppose you know what's the best for her." He spoke indifferently, but there was an odd note in his voice.

He picked up his tray, and carelessly added: "For my part I shall be glad to get out of Cornwall.

It's a savage place, only fit for savages and seagulls.

There's the wind rising again." A violent gust shook the house, and rattled the window-panes of the room.
It was the eyrie in which the deceased artist had painted his pictures, with two large windows which looked over the cliff.

Again the gale sprang at the house, and smote the windows with spectral blows.