London, November
I go to the little Soho church of Our Lady of France, to just stay there, not praying or anything.
I go just to be with a people who are far from their country in her great need.
Most of them are very humble people. There is a smell of poverty always in the little dark church. They are people to whom "home" can mean only some small poor place and things, a thatched cabin, a vineyard, a mansarde over a cobbled street.
They kneel in the little dark church and sing—
Sauvez, sauvez la France
Au nom du Sacré Cœur—
while alien feet tread hearts down into the stains and bruises of the roads between shattered poplar trees and thatched roofs burning.