Erick Berry, Cynthia Steps Out
“ Wooden shoes clattered merrily on the cobbles of the quay, and along the distant dunes, purpling with dusk, smoke rose from the smouldering potash fires where, Nancy had said, the thrifty Bretons burned seaweed for fertilizer.She was pleasantly weary and very hungry. All last night she had been traveling, more than half the width of France from Paris to Brest. Uncle Leslie had sailed from Brest after the Armistice, she remembered, and its steep streets and ancient houses, built on half a dozen different levels, had fascinated her during the hours she had to wait for her trolley to Le Conquet. ”
