A trench; a high-explosive shell; the fate of young Etherington; and no possible little wooden cross to mark his grave.
And Betty, on the floor by my side, gave way.
The proud will bent.

She surrendered herself to a paroxysm of sorrow.
She was not in a fit state to return to the hospital, where, I learned, she shared a bedroom with Phyllis Gedge.

I shrank from sending her home to the tactless comforting of her aunts.

They were excellent, God-fearing ladies, but they had never understood Betty.

All her life they had worried her with genteel admonitions.