The hospital smelled of antiseptic and death. Arthur Windsor stood at the window of the Ward 7 corridor and looked out at the Belgian landscape, which was nothing more than mud and artillery crabs ...
The boy in Bed 4 was crying for his mother. He could not have been older than eighteen, with a bandage around his waist and a face that was pale and wet with tears. Arthur stood there and listened to the crying, which was not dramatic but steady and patient, like the crying of a man who had been crying for hours and had not yet exhausted his supply of tears. Arthur wanted to go into the ward...
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