As a fact, the Registrar wore a silk hat, a suit of black
West-of-England broadcloth, a watch-chain made out of his dead wife's
hair, and two large seals that clashed together when he moved.
His face was wide and round, with a sanguine complexion, grey
side-whiskers, and a cicatrix across the chin. He had shaved in a
hurry that morning, for the wedding was early, and took place on the
extreme verge of his district. His is a beautiful office--recording
day by day the solemnest and most mysterious events in nature. Yet,
standing at the cross-roads, between down and woodland, under an April
sky full of sun and south-west wind, he threw the ugliest shadow in
the landscape.
The road towards the coast dipped--too steeply for tight boots--down a
wooded coombe, and he followed it, treading delicately. The hollow of
the V ahead, where the hills overlapped against the pale blue, was
powdered with a faint brown bloom, soon to be green--an infinity
of bursting buds. The larches stretched their arms upwards, as men
waking. The yellow was out on the gorse, with a heady scent like a
pineapple's, and between the bushes spread the grey film of coming
blue-bells.
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