Explore "Wyndham's Pal" by Harold Bindloss on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Marston sat by a window in an English country house. His pose was limp and his face was thin, for the fever had shaken him, but he felt his strength coming back. Outside, bare trees shook their branches in a fresh west wind, and a white belt of surf crept across the shining sands in the broad estuary. On the other side, the Welsh hills rose against the sunset in a smooth black line.
Marston felt pleasantly languid and altogether satisfied. Mabel had put a cushion under his head and given him a footstool. It was soothing to be taken care of by one whom one loved, and after the glare of the Caribbean and the gloom of the swamps, the soft colors and changing lights of the English landscape rested his eyes. For all that, they did not wander long from Mabel, who sat close by, quietly pondering. With her yellow hair and delicate pink skin she looked very English, and all that was English had an extra charm for Marston. He liked her thoughtful calm. Mabel was normal; she, so to speak, walked in the light, and the extravagant imaginings he had indulged at the lagoon vanished when she was about.