The few houses and the clumps of red or yellowish trees were in no way remarkable. The gloomy five-o'clock sky was such as you might see on any autumn afternoon. The flat heath which spread out before me (for the village lies all behind and to the north of the station) looked an ordinary heath. As I left the railway station at Worchester and set out on the three-mile walk to Ransom's cottage, I reflected that no one on that platform could possibly guess the truth about the man I was going to visit.
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