Jonathan
It was not my head, but my heart that took me to London.
If I had been smart, I’d have boarded the next train to Norwich and headed home to the country house where I’d spent my youth: a proper, provincial English hamlet where I could, in my mother’s words, “recover” from my newly acquired nervous disorder. Some peace and quiet would do me good, she said. She was anxious to have me home; Alice Morrow, from up the hill, had been asking after me, and wasn’t it high time that a man of my age was married?
Socializing with Alice Morrow was, however, the last thing on my mind. In fact, I had thought of very little beyond the war up until the moment I set foot once again on English shores, windblown and disoriented by the notion that anything might exist beyond the disturbed earth of t
