Explore "Sydney Cove" by J.H.M. Abbott on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THE morning was one of the best that Sydney ever gets in winter--that is to say, it was as near perfection as is possible. A cloudless sky, still air with a delightful tonic in it that makes life infinitely worth living, brilliant sunshine without unpleasant heat, and a clarity of atmosphere render such days memorable. In their fullest perfection they are not common, but when they do occur, it seems fastidious to doubt that it is possible in Sydney to realise the very finest weather in all the world.
White of face, and rather gaunt of feature--but better to look at than he had been half an hour before, for the reason that Mr. Owen Morgan had just scraped from his face a rough beard of exactly three weeks and two days' growth--Mr. Patrick Cartwright, of the Marines, lay in a hammock outside the primitive hospital near the south-western curve of the Cove, propped up with pillows, and delightedly surveyed the entrancing scene before his eyes. He was very weak, but it was easy to see that he was very happy. In his hand was an open letter from Governor Phillip, of which, as a respectable novelist would say, "there will be more anon."