He had
done his bit as a man should. In the doing he had been broken in a
cruel variety of ways. The war machine had chewed him up and spat him
out on the scrap heap. None of these hale, unmanned citizens cared to
be annoyed by the sight of him, of what had happened to him.
And he could not much longer endure this unapproachableness, this
palpable shrinking. He could not much longer bear to be in the midst
of light and laughter, of friendly talk and smiling faces, and be
utterly shut off from any part in it all. He was in as evil case as a
man chained to a rock and dying of thirst, while a clear, cold stream
flowed at his feet. Whether he walked the streets or sat brooding in
his room, he could not escape the embittered consciousness that all
about him there was a great plenty of kindly fellowship which he
craved and which he could not share because war had stamped its iron
heel upon his face.
Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he craved the refuge of
silence and solitude. If he could not escape from himself, at least he
could withdraw from this feast at which he was a death's-head.
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