Every apartment in the house held its quota of wounded, and down below the busy surgeons had transformed the parlor into an operating room.

In spite of my closed door I could overhear occasionally a cry of pain.
Yet I was only conscious of wanting one presence--Billie.

I could not understand where she had gone, why she had left me.

She had been there, over in the far corner, her face hidden in her hands, when the surgeon probed my wounds.

She had been beside me when he went out, her soft hand brushing back my hair.