The stretcher bearers are coming for him," Williams whispered.
We swung into the long road again, increasing our speed.
If we could get over that next hill without a shell—
When we drove up to the château it was raining. Great drops fell from the caves like tears.
After dinner, when I was talking to Williams, I challenged the reliability of that new, frank British attitude.
“I'm looking," I said, "for some one to tell me he doesn't mind shell fire."
Williams snorted.
“When you find him you can call him a liar, and the worst of it is you never get used to it. Each time's a little worse than the last."
It was pleasant to look back that night, to forecast nothing on the morrow more exciting than the inspection of passes by military policemen, Scotland Yard detectives, and French soldiers.
I wondered that I had had the effrontery to buy a return ticket.
Doubtless, I thought, Paris would seem like a strange city in a peaceful and sorrowful world.
