They do not take the slightest interest in sea, or sun, or sky,
or the fresh breeze calling white horses from the deep. Their pursuits
are purely "social," and neither ladies nor gentlemen ever go on the
beach or lie where the surge comes to the feet. The beach is ignored; it
is almost, perhaps quite vulgar; or rather it is entirely outside the
pale. No one rows, very few sail; the sea is not "the thing" in Brighton,
which is the least nautical of seaside places. There is more talk of
horses.
The wind coming up the cliff seems to bring with it whole armfuls of
sunshine, and to throw the warmth and light against you as you linger.
The walls and glass reflect the light and push back the wind in puffs and
eddies; the awning flutters; light and wind spring upwards from the
pavement; the sky is richly blue against the parapets overhead; there are
houses on one side, but on the other open space and sea, and dim clouds
in the extreme distance. The atmosphere is full of light, and gives a
sense of liveliness! every atom of it is in motion. How delicate are the
fore legs of these thoroughbred horses passing! Small and slender, the
hoof, as the limb rises, seems to hang by a thread, yet there is strength
and speed in those sinews.
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