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There was not so much a roar as the purposeful drive of a tide across a jagged reef, which put down every other sound for twenty minutes. A wide sheet of water hurried up to the little terrace on which the house stood, pushed round either corner, rose again and stretched, as it were, yawning beneath the moonlight, joined other sheets waiting for them in unsuspected hollows, and lay out all in one. A puff of wind followed.


This is from “My Son’s Wife” in A Diversity of Creatures.

Frankwell Midmore has moved from a bohemian life among aesthetes in Hampstead to a country estate, where he is becoming a squire. Here he is out on a rescue mission on a night of winter floods.