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Locke, William John, 1863-1930

"The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne : a Novel"


That young fellow, I unhesitatingly assert, must be the most
brainless of his type. I suffer fools gladly, as a general rule,
but if I see much of this one I shall do him some injury.

After dejeuner we strolled to the top of the west cliff and lay
on the thick dry grass. The earth has never known a more perfect
afternoon. A day of turquoise and diamond.
The air itself was diaphanous blue. Below us the tiny place
slumbered in the sunshine; scarcely a sign of life save specks of
washer-women on the beach bending over white patches which we
knew were linen spread out to dry. The ebb-tide lapped lazily on
the shingle, where the sea changed suddenly from ultramarine to a
fringe of feathery white. A white sail or two flecked the blue
of the bay. A few white wisps of cirrus gleamed above our heads.
Around us, on the cliff-tops, the green pastures and meadows and,
farther inland, the cornfields stacked in harvest, and great
masses of trees. Lying on our backs, between sea and sky, we
seemed utterly alone.


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