When I come out of it into the world again I shall be overwhelmed with other people's impressions of it, people far cleverer than I.There will be brilliant descriptions of battles, of what it feels like to be under fire, of marches, victories, retreats, wounds, death--everything.

I shall forget what my own little tiny piece of it was like--and I don't want to forget.

I want intensely to remember the truth _always_, because the truth is bound up with Marie, and Marie with the truth.

Why need I be shy now about her?
Why should I hesitate, under the fear of my own later timidity, of saying exactly now what I feel?
God knows what I _do_ feel! I am confused, half-numb, half-dead, I believe, with moments of fiery biting realisation.

I'm neither sad, nor happy--only breathlessly expectant.