““Eh alors?” said Monsieur Beauvais raising his hands to draw the scarf closer. He shrugged. “I knew that it would be difficult.” “We can spare ourselves looking,” she began, touching his arm, “just as I told you, you see. We will find him at home.” “Oh yes,” he agreed shaking his head a little, “yes, yes,” and they began to walk. Old Beauvais’ son was just back from the fighting, and now he had gone out of the cinema and left them, during the newsreel. Certainly. And yet (it had to be considere...d) what had there been? Pictures of soldiers and trucks moving past, some explosions in the distance. What was it, artillery shock? Nerves? Weren’t his nerves alright? Oh yes. Surely. But he had gone to a café no doubt, to get a drink, a girl. Perhaps even to get really drunk. So they said, so they said. “Perhaps he had seen it before,” she said, not wholly serious. She was old too of course, as old as he, but never so old as the way they walked now, slowly, together in the market street, in the late afternoon.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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