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Updated: May 8, 2025
Turning the pages, idly so, I came to a leaf on which something was written with ink, in the familiar girlish hand. It was only the words 'Dear John, through which she had drawn two hasty pencil lines I wish she had n't drawn those lines!" added Bladburn, under his breath. He was silent for a minute or two, looking off towards the camps, where the lights were fading out one by one.
Strong, who was very sensitive to this kind of disaster, was complaining bitterly one morning, because he had lost three "pieces" the night before. "There's Quite So, now," said Strong, "when a Minie-ball comes ping! and knocks one of his guns to flinders, he merely smiles, and does n't at all see the degradation of the thing." Poor Bladburn!
Somewhere, far off, a band was playing, at intervals it seemed; and now and then, nearer to, a silvery strain from a bugle shot sharply up through the night, and seemed to lose itself like a rocket among the stars the patient, untroubled stars. Suddenly a hand was laid upon my arm. "I 'd like to say a word to you," said Bladburn.
What did he mean by eternally conning that tattered Latin grammar? And was his name Bladburn, anyhow? Even his imperturbable amiability became suspicious. And then his frightful reticence! If he was the victim of any deep grief or crushing calamity, why did n't he seem unhappy? What business had he to be cheerful?
"I believe not to-day," Bladburn would reply, as if he had written yesterday, or would write to-morrow: but he never wrote. He had become a great favorite with us, and with all the officers of the regiment. He talked less than any man I ever knew, but there was nothing sinister or sullen in his reticence. It was sunshine, warmth and brightness, but no voice.
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