Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from French Windows
During those early pictures it was hard to tell whether the toothed sky-line, in the breath less hot dusk, were a row of corn-stooks (like an endless war-train arrested by some block far ahead and incomprehensible to miles of waggons and men), or really a war-train like corn-stooks. Often, in the early light, when dawn was re arranging pictures out of the solid ink of night, even the near fields would seem covered with monstrous parades of hideous titanic snails, each corn-stook standing for a shell, the long, level Shadows for the ugly creeping body.
The first pictures of all had welcome for title: even the Havre streets had that name at every corner of them, the Havre people had it in their eyes, and every smiling lip expressed it to the English soldier who could understand, then, no other word of French: Welcome, good Englishman come to help our France at her need. We had done nothing yet, but we had come, against all the expectation of the Imperial calculator who had thought, 'england will never go. Secure in her selfish island she will sit at home and bask in her safety like a purring cat that cares for no outward storm while her own place is warm by the hearth. England has nought to gain, and her friend's loss will never cut her.
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