“We are so comfortable here. . . . I would rather not. . . . It is not worth while. I should feel remorse afterwards. . . . Why think of such things in these anxious times!”
The world around her seemed saturated with love, but it was a new love—a love for the man who is suffering, desire for abnegation, for sacrifice. This love called forth visions of white caps, of tremulous hands healing shell-riddled and bleeding flesh.
Every advance on Julio’s part but aroused in Marguerite a vehement and modest protest as though they were meeting for the first time.
“It is impossible,” she protested. “I keep thinking of my brother, and of so many that I know that may be dying at this very minute.”
News of battles were beginning to arrive, and blood was beginning to flow in great quantities.
“No,
