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Crimson glows upon which tired eyes rested unthinking, uncaring, the mind worn under the ceaseless repetition: "When will we stop? Why don't they let us fight it out? God, we'd make a mess of him anyhow." Then someone would address no one in particular: "Wonder 'ow many we 'ave left?" "Gawd knows. About a 'undred an' fifty." "See 'im toppling our lads out at Verbequie?" "Yes.
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