Her eyes looked far away. The fingers of her left hand pulled at a splinter that stood up from the round bulk of the pole.
“Four years. Yes, it is a long time. And our child died—died of starvation. For six months I have had no letter.”
“I am sorry,” said Brent.
She began to question him—for his presence there seemed to give her hope—and the lies that he had to tell her turned sour in Brent’s mouth.
“You have come a long way, monsieur, perhaps from the centre of Germany?”
“Yes, a long way. I was in Germany.”
“It may be that you met my Jean? Jean Bart is his name, a tall man with thoughtful blue eyes and a scar on his forehead.”
“I am afraid not, madame. But there must be hundreds of persons who have not yet come home.”
“You think so, monsieur?”
“Many are in hospital. Some were in Russia.”