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

"Springhaven : a Tale of the Great War"

"But I must not expose you to
the risk," said he, "of heavy fine and imprisonment. I shall have to say
good-bye to all your goodness in an hour. And I shall not even allow
you to know what road I take, lest you should be blamed for sending my
pursuers on the wrong one. But search my room in three days' time, and
you will find a packet to pay for something which I must steal for the
present. I pray you, ask nothing, for your own sake."
They fed him well, and he took three loaves, and a little keg of cider,
as well as the bag he had packed before he surrendered himself at
Etaples. Madame Fropot wept and kissed him, because he reminded her of
her lost son; and M. Jalais embraced him, because he was not at all like
any son of his. With hearty good wishes, and sweet regret, and promises
never to forget them, the Englishman quitted this kind French house, and
became at once a lawful and a likely mark for bullets.
The year was now filled with the flurry of Spring, the quick nick of
time when a man is astonished at the power of Nature's memory. A
great many things had been left behind, mainly for their own good, no
doubt--some of the animal, some of the vegetable, some of the mineral
kingdom even--yet none of them started for anarchy. All were content to
be picked up and brought on according to the power of the world, making
allowance for the pinches of hard times, and the blows of east winds
that had blown themselves out.


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