He was ambling quietly towards Quiberon; he would be back directly and return again the next day.

He is the guest of the coast; he passes in the morning and again at night.

His life is spent going from one point to another; he is the only one who gives the coast some animation, something to look forward to, and, I was almost going to say, some charm.
He stopped and talked to us for a few minutes, then lifted his hat and was off again.
What an ensemble! What a horse, and what a rider! What a picture! Callot would probably have reproduced it, but it would take Cervantes to write it.
After passing over large pieces of rock that have been placed in the sea in order to shorten the route by cutting the back of the bay in two, we finally arrived at Plouharnel.
The village was quiet; chickens cackled and scratched in the streets, and in the gardens enclosed by stone walls, weeds and oats grew side by side.
While we were sitting in front of the host's door, an old beggar passed us.

He was as red as a lobster, dirty and unkempt and covered with rags and vermin.

The sun shone on his dilapidated garments and on his purple skin; it was almost black and seemed to transude blood.