But Sara Lee had no coquetry. When, as
occasionally happened, there was a bit too much fervor when her hand was
kissed, she laid it where it belonged--to loneliness and the spring--and
became extremely maternal and very, very kind. Which--both of them--are
death blows to young love.
The winter floods were receding. Along the Yser Canal mud-caked flats
began to appear, with here and there rusty tangles of barbed wire. And
with the lessening of the flood came new activities to the little house.
The spring drive was coming.
There was spring indeed, everywhere but in Henri's heart.
Day after day messages were left with Sara Lee by men in
uniform--sometimes letters, sometimes a word. And these she faithfully
cared for until such time as Jean came for them. Now and then it was
Henri who came, but when he stayed in the village he made his
headquarters at the house of the mill. There, with sacking over the
windows, he wrote his reports by lamplight, reports which Jean carried
back to the villa in the fishing village by the sea.
However, though he no longer came and went as before, Henri made frequent
calls at the house of mercy. But now he came in the evenings, when the
place was full of men.
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