[…]belts of thin white mist streaked the brown plough land in the hollow where Appleby could see the pale shine of a winding river. Across that in turn, meadow and coppice rolled away past the white walls of a village bowered in orchards,[…]
They can almost all turn a sentence well, rhyme when they choose, or make a fine ore rotundo speech, echoed by the apoiados of their companions.
The only acting that looks like anything but rag week at a bad university is by Billy Hartman as a private detective.
It is a branch that climbs for 11½ miles into the picturesque Wealden hills until, apparently exhausted by the effort, it terminates a mile short of the village of Hawkhurst.
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