Explore "Where England Sets her Feet" by Bernard Capes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was late in July when Brion, returning one noon from a visit to the Glen -- where, against his better sentiments, he had found an irresistible attraction in watching the trout and grayling blowing rings in the water -- was conscious, as he approached the Moated Grange, of something in its atmosphere which had not been there when he left it. A livelier smoke seemed to rise from the kitchen chimney: there were signs of hoofmarks in the dust about the bridge. With a beating heart he pushed open the wicket; there was a shout, and the next moment he was in Clerivault's arms.
‘Marry come up! ' cried that dear paragon. ‘Is not here a gallant guerdon for my toils! Nay, hold away, while my hungry eyes make a feast of thee! '