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Updated: May 9, 2025
Half a million tuberculars in her homes, spreading poison there; two million homeless refugees quartered beyond the war zone; millions of soldiers living in the homes fifty miles back from the line, every month bringing new men to these homes left by their comrades returning to the battle front; air raids by night slaying women and babies; commerce choked with the offering to the war god; soldiers filling the highways; food, clothing and munitions taking all the space upon the railroads; fuel almost prohibitively high; food scarce; and always talk of the war of nothing, absolutely nothing but the war and its horrors.
"Do you know what it was?" "Yes; morphine." "A sixteenth of a grain, wasn't it? That's what is always given to tuberculars to prevent violent spells of coughing, isn't it?" She hesitated, but finally assented. "But that's very little to make one sleep so soundly, that one couldn't hear the cries of a woman being murdered and all the noises that must have accompanied the attack upon her.
But the men had to go, réformés were not strong enough for the work, every bed was occupied one entire building by tuberculars and they must both eat and suffer in sanitary conditions. Once more they were obliged to have recourse to Woman.
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