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Updated: April 30, 2025
It was, we are now aware, the mere Nobodies who won the War for us; and yet we still meekly accept as the artistic representation of the British soldier or sailor an embarrassing guy that would disgrace pantomime. And how the men who won must enjoy it! XV. Waiting for Daylight I read again my friend's last field service postcard, brief and enigmatic, and now six weeks old.
She could bring up nothing better than an old postcard, a hairpin, and a forgotten scrap of chamois-leather. At last they stopped for lunch, choosing a spot where a hedge rose wirily against the midday sky, and spread the rugs on the frozen grass.
And scarcely a moan, scarcely a word of complaint! men giving up their turn with the surgeon to a comrade 'Never mind me, sir he's worse nor me! or the elder cheering the younger 'Stick it, young'un this'll get you to Blighty right enough! or, in the midst of mortal pain, signing a field postcard for the people at home, or giving a message to a padre for mother or wife.
To her amaze it was sent back to Merchiston Terrace, as if the Herons thought that Kitty was still with her, and a batch of letters with the Dunmuir postmark began to accumulate on the Baxters' table. Finally there came a postcard from Elizabeth, which Mrs. Baxter took the liberty of reading. "Dear Kitty," it ran, "why do you not write to us? When are you coming back?
He added that the instructor's name was not Hopkins but Jenkins, and gave Mrs. Clarke the address of the gymnasium. At the end of his short note he expressed his intention of calling at Claridge's, but did not say when he would come. He thought he would not fix the day and the hour until he had been to Westgate. On a postcard Mrs.
And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with him. U.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods. He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers Iying there. Like to answer them all.
Her eyes swam with passion, as she leaned over the table whispering words of the most violent love in his ears. Verisschenzko remained absolutely unstirred. "How silly you were to send that postcard to Lady Ardayre," he remarked contemplatively in the middle of one of her burning sentences. "It was not worthy of your usual methods a child could see that it was a forgery.
It might be true that I was already buried in Bayport, but that was my home cemetery, at all events. The more I thought of Jim Campbell's prescription the less I felt like taking it. However, I kept on with the thinking; I had promised to do that. On Wednesday came a postcard from Jim, himself, demanding information. "When and where are you going?" he wrote. "Wire answer." I did not wire answer.
She was horrified at herself that she should not catch at every straw to prove John was alive, instead of feeling some sense of relief when Verisschenzko protested that the postcard was a forgery. Poor John! Good, and kind, and unselfish. It was all too agitating. But was just life such a very great thing? She knew that had she the choice she would rather be dead than separated now from Denzil.
We had been in the place but a few minutes, when we went to the back of the cathedral where we found an excited old man on the sidewalk with a broom in front of a postcard printing office. He spoke to Henry and me, but we could not understand him. He pointed to the stone dust and spawl freshly dropped on the sidewalk and to a hole in the pavement, and then to a broken iron shell.
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