and, only conscious of a great and yearning sympathy, unlocked her heart and cried a little in close and comforting propinquity.
Together they read the letters from the trenches, all too short, all too elusive in their brave cheeriness. The epistles of Martin and Bigourdin
were singularly alike. Each said much the same. They had not the comforts of the H?tel des Grottes. But what would you have? War was war. They were in splendid h
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