When it was almost upon the coppice it fired, then fixed bayonets.
Suddenly the coppice blazed, a well-directed and fatal volley.
The Welsh call it “pen y llwyn,” the head or master of the coppice.
Almost every afternoon they would enter the coppice, and walk as far as the log.
Turkeys run into the coppice, and pheasants whirr up from the path.
Near the edge of the coppice Tom Gaunt was lopping at some bushes.
He could not fix his attention; his mind would wander to that coppice.
It had been found by the spaniels of one of his keepers in a coppice, and shot on the wing.
And he hurried away out of the coppice, past the pond, up the hill.
The kitchen-garden, and the pond and the coppice, and the farm.
