doesn't do everything one thinks of.... No.... Don't imagine I was sick
of the war, or sick of Belgium. It's you I'm sick of."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You had your warning. I told you what would happen if you let
me see you wanted me."

"You think you've seen that?"

"I've seen nothing else."

"Once, perhaps. Twice. Once when you came to me on Barrow Hill. And when
we were crossing; once. And each time you never saw it."

"Anybody can see. It's in your face. In your eyes and mouth. You can't
hide your lust."

"My--'lust.' Don't you know I only cared for you because I'd done
with that?"

They stopped. The nuns were back again, bringing great cups of hot black
coffee, coming quietly, and going quietly away. It was wonderful, all
that beauty and gentleness and peace existing in the horror of the war,
and through this horror within horror that John had made.

They drank their coffee, slowly, greedily, prolonging this distraction
from their torment. Charlotte finished first.

"You say I want you. I own I did once. But I don't now. Why, I care