Which, I think, was uncommon handsome.
Any way, I kissed her slight fingers….
As we reached our companions—
"I could stay here for ever," said Berry. "Easily. But I'm not going to. The wind annoys me, and the sea's not what it was before the War."
"How can you?" said Daphne. She stretched out a pointing arm. "Just look at that one—that great big fellow. It must be the ninth wave."
"Nothing to the York Ham—I mean the Welsh Harp—on a dirty night," replied her husband. "Why, I remember once …"
In the confusion of a precipitate retreat before the menace of the roller, the reminiscence was lost.
It was certainly a magnificent spectacle.
There was a heavy sea running, and the everlasting battle between the river and the Atlantic was being fought with long swift spasms of unearthly fury. Continually recurring, shock, mellay and rally overlapped, attack and repulse were inextricably mingled, the very lulls between the paroxysms were big with wrath. There was a point, too, where the river's bank became coastline, a blunt corner of land, which seemed to exasperate the sea out of all reason. A stiff breeze abetting them, the gigantic waves crashed upon it with a concussion that shook the air. All the royal rage of Ocean seemed to be concentrated on this little prominence. The latter's indifference appeared to aggravate its assailant. Majesty was in a tantrum.
With the exception of Berry, we could have watched the display till, as they say, the cows come home. My brother-in-law, however, felt differently. The wind was offending him.