Maybe it was Morelli; like enough. He’s often round that way. I’m thinking of you often, and I’ll be back in London, November. I’d like to have you out here, with stars instead of chimney pots and a red light where the sun’s setting. I’ll write again from the North. Yours very faithfully, David Garrick. CHAPTER XXII THE PLACE It is twilight. The cove is sinking with its colours into the evening mists. The sea is creeping very gently over the sand, that shines a little with the wet marks that the retreating tide has left. The rocks, the hills, the town, rise behind the grey mysterious floor that stretches without limit into infinite distance in black walls sharply outlined against the night blue of the sky. There is only one star. Some sheep are crying in a fold. A cold wind passes like a thief over the sand. The sea creeps back relentlessly, ominously . . . eternally. the end TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Spelling errors have been corrected but all British spellings have been retained. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Maradick at Forty, by Hugh Walpole