The taste of brine was on my lips, and now and again flakes of foam whirled past me far inland.

From Dunaff to Malin the coast was one long waste of white water.

And already the great Atlantic rollers, which for a day past had brought their solemn warning in from the open, were breaking miles out at sea, and racing in on the shore like things pursued.
As for me, my spirits rose as I looked out and saw it all.

For I loved the sea in its angry moods.

And this promise of tempest seemed somehow to accord with the storm that was raging in my own breast.