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This little procedure had considerably outraged the Guard Champetre's sense of decency. The Yser, said he, flowed perfectly red for a long time. "We were all together: Belgians, French, English ... we Belgians did not see any good reason for continuing the battle. But we continued. O indeed we continued. Do you know why?" I said that I was afraid I didn't.
There was about it something unspeakably crisp and exquisite, something perfect and minute and gentle and fatal.... The Guard Champetre's cry began a poem in the back of my head, a poem about the snow, a poem in French, beginning Il tombe de la neige, Noel, Noel. I watched the snow.
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