It stretched around them, dark with heather as far as they could see.

The night covered it like a tent.

It seemed the platform of the world.

Clarice suddenly recollected her old image of the veld, and she laughed at the recollection as one laughs at some queer fancy one has held in childhood.
Across the moor the wind blew freshly into their faces.

Drake quickened the horse's paces, and Clarice imagined a lyrical note in the ringing beat of its hooves.