But that first day--No. He had been brave then. She had only lied because she was afraid he would worry about her.... Brave then. Could war tire you and wear you down, and change you from yourself? In two weeks? Change him so that she had to hate him!

Half the night she lay awake wondering: Do I hate him because he doesn't care about me? Or because he doesn't care about the wounded? She could see all their faces: the face of the wounded man at Melle (he had crawled out on his hands and knees to look for her); the face of the dead boy who hadn't died when John left him; the Flamand they brought from Lokeren, lying in the road; the face of the dead man in the shed--And John's face.

How could you care for a thing like that? How could you want a thing like that to care for you?

And she? She didn't matter. Nothing mattered in all the world but Them.




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