One lovely summer afternoon a little boy was sitting on the edge of the cliff that skirts the old churchyard of Raxton-on-Sea. He was sitting on the grass close to the brink of the indentation cut by the water into the horse-shoe curve called by the fishermen Mousetrap Cove; sitting there as still as an image of a boy in stone, at the forbidden spot where the wooden fence proclaimed the crumbling hollow crust to be specially dangerous; sitting and looking across the sheer deep gulf below.
A romantic mystery, spoilt for me by much repetitive discussion of relatively few situations and large amounts of strangely spelt dialogue. The story line is improbable. Still, I managed to finish it. I couldn't decide whether the copious information on Gypsy and rural Welsh life was authentic or not. Presumably the many Romany words that appear were in use in those days. He was friends with well-known writers such as Swinburne and Tennyson.