"How it came about I do not know," starts the paragraph in "The 'Dulcibella'" (The Riddle of the Sands) in which Carruthers traces the banishment of his petulant mood: "The crown of martyrdom disappeared, the wounded vanity healed; that precious fund of fictitious resignation drained away, but left no void." I know it won't last, but nothing in Stevenson, nothing in Henry James, nothing in Buchan, is more alluring than these early pages. What a triumph of the art of story-telling!
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