If you go on you'll look as silly as a giant, and if you're going to frighten folks, look out for yourself!" He plants himself before me in massive conviction.

The full daylight reveals more crudely the aging of his features.

His skin is stretched on the bones of his head, and the muscles of his neck and shoulders work badly; they stick, like old drawers.
"And then, after all, what _do_ you want?
We've got to carry the war on, eh?
We must give the Boches hell, to sum up." With an effort, wearied beforehand, I ask, "And afterwards ?" "What--afterwards?
Afterwards there'll be wars, naturally, but civilized wars.

Afterwards?
Why, future posterity! Own up that you'd like to save the world, eh, what?
When you launch out into these great machinations you say enormities compulsively.

The future?
Ha, ha!" I turn away from him.