torted. "I'm going by myself."
His face brightened. Almost cheerfully he assured me that I should find nothing to eat in Murglebed.
"You can amuse yourself," said I, "by sending me down a daily hamper of provisions."
"There isn't even a church," he continued.
"Then you can send me down a tin one from Humphreys'. I believe they can supply one with everything from a tin rabbit-hutch to a town hall."
He sighed and departed, and the next day I found myself here, in Murglebed-on-Sea.
On a murky, sullen November day Murglebed exhibits unimagined horrors of scenic depravity. It snarls at you malignantly. It is like a bit of waste land in Gehenna. There is a lowering, soap-suddy thing a mile away from the more or less dry land which local ignorance and superstition call the sea. The interim is mud--oozy, brown, malevolent mud. Sometimes it seems to heave as if with the myriad bodies of slimy crawling eels and worms and snakes. A few foul boats lie buried in it.
Here and there, on land, a surly in
It’s a good story. The main character is a rich young man, which is a typical main character in early 20th century romances, but the twist is that he is dying. The ending is also different than the typical romance, it DOES NOT end with the rich boy falling in love with a pretty poverty stricken girl but quite different. I admire that the author dared to change the story up from the typical romance novel. Warning - There is a small person in the story they use some harsh terms with, so you might be offended if you are vertically impaired.
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