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Excerpt from Springhaven, Vol. 2 of 3: A Tale of the Great War
One Saturday evening, when the dusk was just beginning to smoothe the break of billow and to blunt the edge of rock, young Dan Tugwell swung his axe upon his shoulder, with the flag basket hanging from it, in which his food had been, and in a rather crusty state of mind set forth upon his long walk home to Springhaven. As Harry Shanks had said, and almost everybody knew, an ancient footpath, little used but never yet obstructed, cut off a large bend of the shore and saved half mile of plodding over rock and shingle. This path was very lonesome, and infested with dark places, as well as waylaid by a very piteous ghost, who never would keep to the spot where he was murdered, but might appear at any shady stretch or woody corner.
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