Tall, thin, gently hurried and bird-like, she yet bore a quaint, almost mirthful, resemblance to her brother, Sir Charles Verity.

Such was the lady who responded, in a spirit of liveliest charity, to Theresa's wildly waved flag of distress.
By the time Miss Verity reached Marychurch the rain amounted to a veritable downpour.

Driven by the southwesterly wind, it swept in sheets over the low-lying country, the pallid waters, drab mud-flats, dingy grey-green salt-marsh, and rusty brown reed-beds of the estuary.

The dusty road, running alongside this last through the hamlets of Horny Cross and Lampit, grew hourly deeper in gritty mud.

Beyond question summer and all its dear delights were departed and the chill mournfulness of autumn reigned in their stead.
With the surrounding mournfulness, Miss Verity's simple, yet devious, mind played not ungratefully.