"I don't know that I can talk about it," she said. "I feel much like the
men. It is too close. I am thankful that I Had the experience: not only to
have been of actual service, indispensable, as every good nurse was, but to
have been a part of that colossal drama. But I am even more thankful that
it is over and if I can possibly avoid it I'll never nurse again."
"I suppose you have had no time to write?"
"I should think not! During the brief leaves of absence I spent most of the
time in bed. But I have an immense amount of material. I have no idea how
much fiction has been written about the war; there might have been none, so
far as I have had time to discover. I've barely read a newspaper."
"The only reason I want to go back to America is to hear the news. I see a
New York newspaper once in a while, and it is plain they have it all. We
have next to none in Europe, in France at all events. Shall you write your
stories here or go back to California? That would give you the necessary
perspective, I should think."
Alexina's eyes were fixed upon an execrable print many inches above the
footboard, and Gora, glancing at her, reflected that she was as beautiful
as ever in spite of her loss of flesh and color. Any one would be with eyes
that were like stars when they looked at you and a Murillo madonna's when
she lifted them the fraction of an inch. Astute as she was she had never
penetrated below the surface of Alexina, nor suspected the use she made of
those pliable orbs.
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