A lamp has been left alight, because the men are not asleep yet, and
they are allowed to smoke for a while. It would be no fun to smoke,
unless one could see the smoke.
The former bedroom of the mistress of the house makes a very light,
very clean ward. Under the draperies which have been fastened up to the
ceiling and covered with sheets, old Louarn lies motionless, waiting for
his three shattered limbs to mend. He is smoking a cigarette, the ash
from which falls upon his breast. Apologising for the little heaps of
dirt that make his bed the despair of the orderlies, he says to me:
"You know, a Breton ought to be a bit dirty."