Arrival in the Snow
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February. A biting wind drives the last snowfall of the year over the downs. You stagger into the Coach and Horses inn, more dead than alive, carrying your black portmanteau. You are wrapped from head to foot, the brim of your soft felt hat hiding every inch of your face save for the shiny tip of your pink nose.
Mrs. Hall, the landlady, bustles over as you fling two sovereigns onto the table. "A fire," you cry, "in the name of human charity! A room and a fire!"
She prepares a meal, but lingers, her eyes scanning your wet coat and the melting snow dripping onto her carpet. She asks if she can take your hat and coat to dry in the kitchen.