{"id":"01KG8AKRV4EP176WCQMMCCSS39","cid":"bafkreihp3molyz2yvjqbmyblcwlkiz2wmlqsmkopujyhxc2spo5sxaoywm","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":526,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","start_line":438,"text":"“No doubt the sunset gilds it finely; but not more than the sunrise\r\ndoes this house, perhaps.”\r\n\r\n“This house? The sun is a good sun, but it never gilds this house. Why\r\nshould it? This old house is rotting. That makes it so mossy. In the\r\nmorning, the sun comes in at this old window, to be sure—boarded up,\r\nwhen first we came; a window I can’t keep clean, do what I may—and half\r\nburns, and nearly blinds me at my sewing, besides setting the flies and\r\nwasps astir—such flies and wasps as only lone mountain houses know.\r\nSee, here is the curtain—this apron—I try to shut it out with then. It\r\nfades it, you see. Sun gild this house? not that ever Marianna saw.”\r\n\r\n“Because when this roof is gilded most, then you stay here within.”\r\n\r\n“The hottest, weariest hour of day, you mean? Sir, the sun gilds not\r\nthis roof. It leaked so, brother newly shingled all one side. Did you\r\nnot see it? The north side, where the sun strikes most on what the rain\r\nhas wetted. The sun is a good sun; but this roof, in first scorches,\r\nand then rots. An old house. They went West, and are long dead, they\r\nsay, who built it. A mountain house. In winter no fox could den in it.\r\nThat chimney-place has been blocked up with snow, just like a hollow\r\nstump.”\r\n\r\n“Yours are strange fancies, Marianna.”\r\n\r\n“They but reflect the things.”\r\n\r\n“Then I should have said, ‘These are strange things,’ rather than,\r\n‘Yours are strange fancies.’”\r\n\r\n“As you will;” and took up her sewing.\r\n\r\nSomething in those quiet words, or in that quiet act, it made me mute\r\nagain; while, noting, through the fairy window, a broad shadow stealing\r\non, as cast by some gigantic condor, floating at brooding poise on\r\noutstretched wings, I marked how, by its deeper and inclusive dusk, it\r\nwiped away into itself all lesser shades of rock or fern.\r\n\r\n“You watch the cloud,” said Marianna.\r\n\r\n“No, a shadow; a cloud’s, no doubt—though that I cannot see. How did\r\nyou know it? Your eyes are on your work.”\r\n\r\n“It dusked my work. There, now the cloud is gone, Tray comes back.”\r\n\r\n“How?”\r\n\r\n“The dog, the shaggy dog. At noon, he steals off, of himself, to change\r\nhis shape—returns, and lies down awhile, nigh the door. Don’t you see\r\nhim? His head is turned round at you; though, when you came, he looked\r\nbefore him.”\r\n\r\n“Your eyes rest but on your work; what do you speak of?”\r\n\r\n“By the window, crossing.”\r\n\r\n“You mean this shaggy shadow—the nigh one? And, yes, now that I mark\r\nit, it is not unlike a large, black Newfoundland dog. The invading\r\nshadow gone, the invaded one returns. But I do not see what casts it.”\r\n\r\n“For that, you must go without.”\r\n\r\n“One of those grassy rocks, no doubt.”\r\n\r\n“You see his head, his face?”\r\n\r\n“The shadow’s? You speak as if _you_ saw it, and all the time your eyes\r\nare on your work.”\r\n\r\n“Tray looks at you,” still without glancing up; “this is his hour; I\r\nsee him.”\r\n\r\n“Have you then, so long sat at this mountain-window, where but clouds\r\nand, vapors pass, that, to you, shadows are as things, though you speak\r\nof them as of phantoms; that, by familiar knowledge, working like a\r\nsecond sight, you can, without looking for them, tell just where they\r\nare, though, as having mice-like feet, they creep about, and come and\r\ngo; that, to you, these lifeless shadows are as living friends, who,\r\nthough out of sight, are not out of mind, even in their faces—is it\r\nso?”\r\n\r\n“That way I never thought of it. But the friendliest one, that used to\r\nsoothe my weariness so much, coolly quivering on the ferns, it was\r\ntaken from me, never to return, as Tray did just now. The shadow of a\r\nbirch. The tree was struck by lightning, and brother cut it up. You saw\r\nthe cross-pile out-doors—the buried root lies under it; but not the\r\nshadow. That is flown, and never will come back, nor ever anywhere stir\r\nagain.”\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJK1P0GFSAXBZYP71TNG5","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKRVJ7NN9ZCAFTAPG45QJ","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.204Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:22.210Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}