A stately man who, with the interest in the arts and of literature, and who reeks of the glorious mankind's successes, that being the towers of cities and technology, lived in a barren land only west of Leincomtober.

He had a cottage in those hills, the whining whispers of reality ripped through the windows, and the everlasting faith in horror lay in bed. There was a strange, maddening sense that he had lived for the longest times. To any that behold the actual knowledge of the coordinates of his cottage go mad, so here I cannot speak of these numbers. The location, I can say, is a wretched hole, rambling in the articulate plains of England.

The house was made of oak wood,...