The last ridge was a sand-dune, beautifully ribbed and scalloped and lined by the wind. From its knife-sharp crest a thin sheet of sand blew, drifting, almost like smoke. Shefford wondered why the sand looked red at a distance, for here it seemed almost white. It rippled everywhere, clean and glistening, always leading down.
Suddenly he became aware of a house looming out of the bareness of the slope. It dominated that long white incline. It was grim, lonely, forbidding. How strange, then, that it blended in so well with the surroundings, yet it did. The structure was octagon-shaped, built of uncut stone, and resembled a fort. There was no door on the sides exposed to Shefford's gaze, but small openings about two-thirds of the way up probably served as windows.
