“Deliberately and rudely, Nigel got up, turned the back of his chair to the house. He had seen it last June, lapped in its rose sleep. He had seen it last week, looking flushed, a little frowsty, but more vital, more of this world, as if it had just wakened up. And this afternoon, Plash Meadow was changed again for him. It had come nearer. It was appealing now, he fancifully put it, not through its beauty any more, but out of its frailty: the fine features, the disdainful look had melted into an expression of pretty helplessness. Or was it something worse? Was it apprehension? Panic? Guilt?”
Book:Head of a Traveler