She took the gilt safety pin from her tie, the safety pin that held her
collar to her blouse at the back, and another from the back of her
skirt, and pinned them along his poor coat. An ambulance drove quickly
into the yard, and three men, descending from it, hurried towards them.
At sight of them the poor madman grew frantic, and turning upon Fanny he
cried: "You are against me!" then ran across the yard. She shut her eyes
that she might not see them hunt the lover of freedom, and only opened
them when a man cried in triumph: "_We'll_ take you to the King!"
"Pauvre malheureux!" muttered the drivers in the yard.
Day followed day and there was plenty of work. Officers had to be driven
upon rounds of two hundred kilometres a day--interviewing mayors of
ruined villages, listening to claims, assessing damage caused by French
troops in billets. Others inspected distant motor parks. Others made
offers to purchase old iron among the villages in order to prove thefts
from the battlefields.
The early start at dawn, the flying miles, the winter dusk, the long
hours of travel by the faint light of the acetylene lamps filled day
after day; the unsavoury meal eaten alone by the stove, the book read
alone in the cubicle, the fitful sleep upon the stretcher, filled night
after night.
A loneliness beyond anything she had ever known settled upon Fanny.
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