Besides, I'm determined on tea." The little street slept in the clear pure light of an early April evening.

Blue shadows lay on the white road, and a delicate aroma of cooking tantalized hungry nostrils.

The near meadows shone like pale gold against the dark lift of the moor.

A light wind had begun to blow from the west and carried the faintest tang of salt.

The village at that hour was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the Poet's opinion.