"Publishing is awnly being carried on under enormous deefficulties," Campbell announced cheerfully; "dearth of paper—dearth of labour—dearth of railway faceelities—dearth of reviews—dearth of the public's money——"
"Dearth of everything except authors. Behold us in rich quantities, gladdening to the eye. And surely no dearth of material, either; consider with what an infinitely fresh store of possibilities the war has equipped our jaded brains."
"Yus—Ran thinks I left a leg at Suvla Bay, so that he should write eight hundred pages on the theme of 'God's in his Russia, all's right with the——'"
"Shut up!" Wyman's narrow black eyes were wet, and he blinked them rapidly. Confronted with the boy's crippled condition, he was absurdly ashamed of the luck which had carried him unscathed through eighteen months of impudent exposure to all hazards.
Graham Carr put the general question as to whether they considered it legitimate to use the war for purposes of fiction?
"What's your objection, Carr?"
"Life-and-death is a bigger thing than pen-and-ink."
"Dinna say that, laddie. In some cases, pen and ink has sur-r-rvived life and death."
"One in every thousand. The nine hundred and ninety nine are merely ... impertinent."
Patricia murmured reminiscently: "'... And when he came back to her, he wore on his breast a little piece of metal inscribed: For Valour.... He had made good, after all!'"