A great opening paragraph:
Maurice Nugent awoke to sunshine on his sixteenth birthday,—and sunshine on the fells in March was rare enough to make the morning notable. But as he turned over on his bed, stretched himself, and put his feet to the floor, his gloomy face did not reflect the brightness of the day, nor had his movements the alacrity proper to a celebration. He dragged himself to the window, facing south, threw open the casement, and resting his elbows on the sill, gazed into the distance, where the sunbeams gleamed upon water. For some minutes heleant thus, moody, motionless; then abruptly he drew himself up, sighed, cracked his fingers, and turning back into the room, began the slow process of dressing.
