He unhitched his horse’s reins from the gate-post, and mounting, went at a swinging trot down the road.
CHAPTER XX
Under the salt sea’s foam it lay,
At the outermost point of a rocky bay,
A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove
With a red-roofed fishing village above
Of irregular cottages perched up high
Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky.
Shells, and pebbles, and wrack below,
And shrimpers shrimping all in a row,