“In France. At the Base.”
“Wound?”
“Yes.”
“Bad one?”
“He says it’s only a cushy ... but ... but somehow I don’t trust him.”
“How do you mean you don’t trust him?”
“I mean this, Dad.” She was quite composed now; the tears and the shakings were under control; she spoke slowly and calmly. “No matter how bad he was, he’s not one as would ever let on.”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“He’d be afraid it might upset you. He’s got like that lately.” Suddenly the hard eyes filled again. “He grins and bears things now.”