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Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge), 1825-1900

"Springhaven : a Tale of the Great War"

If the book had been good, it would have sold;
especially as all the poets now are writing vague national songs, full
of slaughter and brag, like that 'Billy Blue' thing all our fishermen
are humming."
"You have nothing to do but to bide your time. In the long-run, fine
work is sure to make its way. Meanwhile I must apologise for praising
you to your face, in utter ignorance, of course. But it must have made
you feel uncomfortable."
"Not at all; far otherwise," said the truthful Frank. "It has been the
very greatest comfort to me. And strange to say, it came just when I
wanted it most sadly. I shall never forget your most kind approval."
"In that case I may take the liberty of introducing myself, I trust.
You have told me who you are, in the most delightful way. I have no such
claim upon your attention, or upon that of the world at large. I am
only the last of an ill-fated race, famous for nothing except ruining
themselves. I am Caryl Carne, of yonder ruin, which you, must have known
from childhood."
Frank Darling lifted his hat in reply to the other's more graceful
salutation, and then shook hands with him heartily. "I ought to
have known who you are," he said; "for I have heard of you often at
Springhaven. But you have not been there since I came down, and we
thought that you had left the neighbourhood. Our little village is
like the ear of the tyrant, except that it carries more false than true
sound.


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