In a very few minutes the citizen went past my bunk door, his hat in his
hand, his black coat buttoned; taking back to his home and his family
the last facts that he might ever learn.
At the end of the passage he almost collided with that stretcher which
bears a flag.
Of the two, the stretcher moved me least.
_My_ Sister is afraid of death. She told me so. And not the less afraid,
she said, after all she has seen of it. That is terrible.
But the new Sister is afraid of life. She is shorter-sighted.
The rain has been pouring all day.
To-night it has stopped, and all the hill is steam and drizzle and black
with the blackness that war has thrust upon the countryside.
_My_ Sister has gone.
Two nights ago I went up to a dinner at Madeleine's and to stay the
night. My Sister said, "Go and enjoy yourself!" And I did. It is very
amusing, the change into rooms full of talk and light; I feel a glow of
pleasure as I climb to the room Madeleine calls mine and find the
reflection of the fire on the blue wall-paper.
The evening wasn't remarkable, but I came back full of descriptions to
the bunk and Sister next day.
I was running on, inventing this and that, making her laugh, when
suddenly I looked up, and she had tears in her eyes.
I wavered and came to a stop. She got up suddenly and moved about the
room, and then with a muttered "Wash my hands," disappeared into the
corridor.
I sat and thought: "Is it that she has her life settled, quietly
continuous, and one breaks in...? Does the wind from outside hurt?"