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The date was a week before St. Vincent. The fly-leaf turned. On the back of it, in the great vague hand of a peasant-woman, rheumatic-ridden, bili from mother Xmas 1755 be a good boy. Kit read the inscription with full throat.
Do slaves love their masters? When we passed this road in the winter, black funeral flags hung from almost every hut, and even now the rags still flap in the breeze. A Serbian boy, clad in dirty cottons, shouted to us, making gesticulations. We slowed down and stopped. "Bombe," he cried. "Aeropla-ane. Pet," he held up five fingers, "y jedan je bili slomile. Vidite shrapnel." He pointed.
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