Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
Minęliśmy lasek dębowy; zeschłe liście uściełały drogę nowemu dziedzicowi. Można to było poczytywać za złą wróżbę...