The Postwar Diary

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2026-04-26 18:02:04 -

The Postwar Diary

The field hospital smelled of carbolic acid and cordite, a combination that Clara Whitfield would associate with love for the rest of her life. She was nineteen when she met him, though she would have said twenty if anyone was asking. Age was a flexible thing in 1918—people aged faster here, but they also aged slower, suspended in the liminal space between the girl they had been in America and...

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