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When I put my fingers near his injured eye, Croin recoils a little. "Don't be afraid," I say to him. "Oh, I'm not afraid!" And he adds proudly: "When a chap has lived on Hill 108, he can't ever be afraid of anything again." "Then why do you wince?" "It's just my head moving back of its own accord. I never think of it." And it is true; the man is not afraid, but his flesh recoils.
Croin turns a face half hidden by bandages to me, and puts a leg damp with sweat out from under the blankets, for fever runs high just at this time. He too, is silent; he knows as well as I do that he is not going on well; but all the same, he hopes I shall go away without speaking to him. No. I must tell him. I bend over him and murmur certain things.
He has scarcely uttered twenty words in three weeks. In a corner, Mehay patiently repeats: "P-A, Pa," and the orderly who is teaching him to read presses his forefinger on the soiled page. I make my way towards Croin, Octave. I sit down by the bed in silence.
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