Sucks books

His
eyes were grey, small, set rather wide apart, with a heavy nose
between. His hair was a fiery red, cut close, and of a hue yet more
violent than his mustaches. Even the fading light could not kill his
rufous face.
The big man appeared friendly, though Brendon heartily wished him
away.
"Sea fishing's my sport," he said. "Conger and cod, pollack and
mackerel--half a boat load--that's sport. That means tight lines and
a thirst afterward."
"I expect it does."
"But this bally place seems to bewitch people," continued the big
man. "What is it about Dartmoor? Only a desert of hills and stones
and two-penny half-penny streams a child can walk across; and
yet--why you'll hear folk blether about it as though heaven would
only be a bad substitute."
The other laughed. "There is a magic here. It gets into your blood."
"So it does. Even a God-forgotten hole like Princetown with nothing
to see but the poor devils of convicts. A man I know is building
himself a bungalow out here. He and his wife will be just as happy
as a pair of wood pigeons--at least they think so.


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