Another voice: "Nurse, is there any modern French poetry in that
bookcase?"
"Good heavens, no! Who would have brought it here?"
(Who are they all ... these men with their differing tastes?)
Perhaps the angels feel like this as they trail about in heaven with
their wings flapping on their thin white legs....
"Who were you, angel?"
"I was a beggar outside San Marco."
"Were you? How odd! I was an Englishman."
The concerts that we give in the ward touch me with some curious
emotion. I think it is because I am for once at rest in the ward and
have time to think and wonder.
There is Captain Thomson finishing his song. He doesn't know what to do
with his hands; they swing. He is tall and dark, with soft eyes--and
staff badges.
Could one guess what he is? Never in a dozen years.... But I _know_!