Explore "A Mere Chance" by Ada Cambridge on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Adelonga at about nine o'clock on the morning of the race day would have presented to the eye of the distinguished traveller -- who, however, did not happen to be there, though he was a pretty constant visitor -- a thoroughly typical Australian scene; typical, that is to say, of one distinct phase of Australian life. It was the enchanting weather of the country to begin with; which, say what grumblers will, is not to be matched, one month with another, in all the wide world -- clear, fresh and sunshiny, with an air at once so delicate and so invigorating that none but exceptionally unhappy mortals could help feeling glad to be alive to breathe it.
There had been a cold mist overnight, which was now melting away before the sun in shining white fleeces that swathed the hollows and shoulders of the hills behind the house, long after the upper slopes and peaks had stood sharp and clear in their own forest garments against a sky as pure as a sapphire and as blue as wild forget-me-nots.