It was a thing that Doggie most perfectly understood: a patch of hideous wilderness, of poisoned, shell-scarred, ditch-defiled, barren, loathsome earth.
And her other relations? Only an uncle, her father’s youngest brother, a curé in Douai in enemy occupation. She had not heard of him since the flight from Cambrai.
“But what is going to become of you?”
“So long as one keeps a brave heart what, does it matter? I am strong. I have a good enough education. I can earn my living. Oh, don’t make any mistake. I have no pity for myself. Those who waste efforts in pitying themselves are not of the stuff to make France victorious.”
“I am afraid I have done a lot of self-pitying, Jeanne.”
“Don’t do it any more,” she said gently.
“I won’t,” said he.
“If you keep to the soul you have gained, you can’t,” said Jeanne.
“You are laughing at me.”