But the boy was sitting with his elbows on the cloth and his head propped between his hands, lost to the glare of the room and its glitter of silver, constructing again out of the swift succession of anecdotes a world of cries and wounds, and maddened riderless chargers and men writhing in a fog of cannon-smoke.

The curtest, least graphic description of the biting days and nights in the trenches set the lad shivering.

Even his face grew pinched, as though the iron frost of that winter was actually eating into his bones.

Sutch touched him lightly on the elbow.
"You renew those days for me," said he.

"Though the heat is dripping down the windows, I feel the chill of the Crimea." Harry roused himself from his absorption.
"The stories renew them," said he.
"No.