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He was standing by a wooden cross, half draped by a tattered blue coat and covered with wreaths of withered myrtle. A képi pierced with holes lay upon the grave. And sure enough, by some miracle of coincidence, he had found it. On a wooden slab we read these words: PAUL DUVAL, 151e Rég. d'Inf. 6 sept. 1914 MORT POUR LA PATRIE.
Tambour au 151e Regiment d'Inf., 2e Cie 42e Division, Secteur postale 56. Crude and illiterate though it was, the letter had a certain noble simplicity. "Très gentil," I remarked as I returned it to Jeanne, and thought the matter at an end. But Jeanne had not done, and, with much circumlocution and many hesitations, she at last preferred a simple request.
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