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Saint's Progress

instead of in this damned city!' They who slept in the open, neglecting morality, would certainly have the best of it to-night, for no more dew was falling than fell into Jimmy Fort's heart to cool the fret of that ceaseless thought: `The war! The cursed war!' In the unending rows of little grey houses, in huge caravanserais, and the mansions of the great, in villas, and high slum tenements; in the government offices, and factories, and railway stations where they worked all night; in the long hospitals where they lay in rows; in the camp prisons of the interned; in barracks, workhouses, palaces-no head, sleeping or waking, would be free of that thought: `The cursed war!' A spire caught his eye, rising ghostly over the roofs. Ah! churches alone, void of the human soul, would be unconscious! But for the rest, even sleep wouldn't free them! Here a mother would be whispering the name of her boy; there a merchant would snore and dream he was drowning, weighted with gold; and a wife would be turning, to stretch out her arms to-no one; and a wounded soldier wake out of a dream-trench with sweat on his brow; and a newsvendor in his garret mutter hoarsely. By thousands the bereaved would be tossing, stifling their moans; by thousands the ruined would be gazing into the dark future; and housewives struggling with sums; and soldiers sleeping like logs -for to-morrow they died; and children dreaming of them; and prostitutes lying in stale wonder at the business of their lives; and journalists sleeping the sleep of the just. And over them all, in the moonlight that thought `The cursed war!' would flap black wings, like an old crow! `If Christ were real,' he mused, `He'd reach that moon down, and go chalking "Peace" with it on every door of every house, all over Europe. But Christ's not real, and Hindenburg and Harmsworth are!' As real they were as two great bulls he had once seen in South Africa, fighting. He seemed to hear again the stamp and snort and crash

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE instead of in this damned city!' They who slept in what is open, neglecting morality, would certainly have what is best of it to-night, for no more dew was falling than fell into Jimmy Fort's heart to cool what is fret of that ceaseless thought: `The war! what is cursed war!' In what is unending rows of little grey houses, in huge caravanserais, and what is mansions of what is great, in villas, and high slum tenements; in what is government offices, and factories, and railway stations where they worked all night; in what is long hospitals where they lay in rows; in what is camp prisons of what is interned; in barracks, workhouses, palaces-no head, sleeping or waking, would be free of that thought: `The cursed war!' A spire caught his eye, rising ghostly over what is roofs. Ah! churches alone, void of what is human soul, would be unconscious! But for what is rest, even sleep wouldn't free them! Here a mother would be whispering what is name of her boy; there a merchant would snore and dream he was drowning, weighted with gold; and a wife would be turning, to stretch out her arms to-no one; and a wounded soldier wake out of a dream-trench with sweat on his brow; and a newsvendor in his garret mutter hoarsely. By thousands what is bereaved would be tossing, stifling their moans; by thousands what is ruined would be gazing into what is dark future; and housewives struggling with sums; and soldiers sleeping like logs -for to-morrow they died; and children dreaming of them; and prostitutes lying in stale wonder at what is business of their lives; and journalists sleeping what is sleep of what is just. And over them all, in what is moonlight that thought `The cursed war!' would flap black wings, like an old crow! `If Christ were real,' he mused, `He'd reach that moon down, and go chalking "Peace" with it on every door of every house, all over Europe. But Christ's not real, and Hindenburg and Harmsworth are!' As real they were as two great bulls he had once seen in South Africa, fighting. He seemed to hear again what is stamp and snort and crash where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Saint's Progress (1935) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 60 where is p align="center" where is strong Saint's Progress where is p align="justify" instead of in this damned city!' They who slept in what is open, neglecting morality, would certainly have what is best of it to-night, for no more dew was falling than fell into Jimmy Fort's heart to cool what is fret of that ceaseless thought: `The war! what is cursed war!' In what is unending rows of little grey houses, in huge caravanserais, and what is mansions of what is great, in villas, and high slum tenements; in what is government offices, and factories, and railway stations where they worked all night; in what is long hospitals where they lay in rows; in what is camp prisons of what is interned; in barracks, workhouses, palaces-no head, sleeping or waking, would be free of that thought: `The cursed war!' A spire caught his eye, rising ghostly over what is roofs. Ah! churches alone, void of the human soul, would be unconscious! But for what is rest, even sleep wouldn't free them! Here a mother would be whispering what is name of her boy; there a merchant would snore and dream he was drowning, weighted with gold; and a wife would be turning, to stretch out her arms to-no one; and a wounded soldier wake out of a dream-trench with sweat on his brow; and a newsvendor in his garret mutter hoarsely. By thousands what is bereaved would be tossing, stifling their moans; by thousands what is ruined would be gazing into what is dark future; and housewives struggling with sums; and soldiers sleeping like logs -for to-morrow they died; and children dreaming of them; and prostitutes lying in stale wonder at what is business of their lives; and journalists sleeping what is sleep of what is just. And over them all, in what is moonlight that thought `The cursed war!' would flap black wings, like an old crow! `If Christ were real,' he mused, `He'd reach that moon down, and go chalking "Peace" with it on every door of every house, all over Europe. But Christ's not real, and Hindenburg and Harmsworth are!' As real they were as two great bulls he had once seen in South Africa, fighting. He seemed to hear again the stamp and snort and crash where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") % travel books: Saint's Progress (1935) books

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