"You wish to know about the house," says the old man, sitting with his three- day- old stubble and his ancient wooden cane. He laughs, a short and bitter bark. "I'll tell you that my family has watched the Osburne family for more generations than I could count." He gestures towards the old house, standing alone, boarded up; a harsh blemish on the otherwise beautiful moor. "They's a right lot of fools- aye, the biggest fools maybe you'll ever hear of. But-" he rises, clutching his cane for help- "they's a funny lot, the Osburnes. They may have been richer than my family ever could have dreamed, but they's people too. You came for the house, aye, but it's not the bricks that matter. 'Tis the people- aye, the Osburne family themselves- that you really want to know about." 

He turns his back, facing the godforsaken edifice with- what is the expression on his face, the tinge in his grey eyes? Regret? Melancholy?

He turns back and his chest heaves in a deep breath. "They's still about. Millie, she owns the house now, but she hasn't seen it since she was a girl. She's old now, she's living in Scotland somewhere. We don't know who's gonna own the old place now. All the other relatives haven't met her, or they's dead. Sure, there's one they could dredge up somewhere, but who'd want the old place? The roof's caving in, the windows been broken by the rapscallions in Downholme. Just a mile off, you ken, and what else to do but destroy her?" The bitterness, the sadness in his voice is clear, mixed with what seems oddly like triumph.

"Oh, but you came to hear of the house. I'll tell you about the house."