Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

So You See, When War Comes To One’s Village, One’s Doorstep, It Isn’t Tragic And Impersonal Any Longer. It Is Just An Excuse To Vomit Private Hatred. That Is Why I Am Not A Great Patriot.

He Lacked Tenderness; He Was Rude; And He Had More Than A Streak Of Cruelty In Him; He Was A Thief And A Liar. He Stood For Everything She Feared And Hated And Despised; But She Knew She Could Love Him... This Was No Choice Made With The Mind.

No Person Will Ever Get Into My Blood As A Place Can ... People And Things Pass Away, But Not Places.

Those Dripping Crumpets, I Can See Them Now. Tiny Crisp Wedges Of Toast, And Piping-hot, Flaky Scones. Sandwiches Of Unknown Nature, Mysteriously Flavoured And Quite Delectable, And That Very Special Gingerbread. Angel Cake, That Melted In The Mouth, And His Rather Stodgier Companion, Bursting With Peel And Raisins. There Was Enough Food There To Keep A Starving Family For A Week.

He Had The Face Of One Who Walks In His Sleep, And For A Wild Moment The Idea Came To Me That Perhaps He Was Not Normal, Not Altogether Sane. There Were People Who Had Trances, I Had Surely Heard Of Them, And They Followed Strange Laws Of Which We Could Know Nothing, They Obeyed The Tangled Orders Of Their Own Sub-conscious Minds. Perhaps He Was One Of Them, And Here We Were Within Six Feet Of Death.