slant

It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder Street, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun.

We looked back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands.

The afternoon light slanted through the dusty windowpane, casting long, geometric shadows across the cluttered expanse of Eleanor’s antique mahogany desk.

In small, slanting letters someone had written: “Yellow, with a duck's head handle, found on the Tuesday evening train; belongs, I suspect, to a girl who is braver than she feels today.”