Explore "Ends of The Earth" by Mary Gaunt on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The first winter rains had come with a vengeance. The sun had set and the rain driving before a cutting west wind was coming down in torrents. It had washed the limestone streets of the little seaport town clean; they were slippery and slimy now, almost dangerous to walk upon, and the gas lamps at far distances apart--for gas is dear at Warrnambool--sent out long streaks of light that were reflected on the wet surfaces as in a mirror, and the gutters were running as high as the kerb. All the foot passengers had pulled their collars up above their ears and buttoned their coats close round them. The water streamed from the mackintosh cape of Sergeant Mahone, it trickled off his shiny helmet into his eyes, and his little pointed beard and fierce moustache were limp with wet.
It was a miserable winter's evening, and as he strolled along he whistled to himself a suitable tune, "A policeman's lot is not a happy one."