Oh, if we're going to start quoting I could be here all day.
Dawn crept over the Downs like a sinister white animal; followed by the snarling cries of a wind eating its way between the black boughs of the thorns.
Hee! That's just a few words away from being a winning entry in the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest
Loved the names of the cows: Graceless, Pointless, Feckless, and Aimless, and the way their legs kept falling off randomly.
The description of services at the Church of the Quivering Brethren were priceless. "There'll be no butter in hell!!!"
Bwah ha haaa!
I didn't realize this before, but apparently Mr. Mybug was supposed to be D.H. Lawrence, which makes those scenes where he and Flora are walking in the woods and he keeps pointing out the fecund earth and the budding plants and phallic flower-stems that much funnier in retrospect.