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Page 168

Saint's Progress

And how he paints-all day long; and all night in his head. And so you would not let him paint you, after all?'
Lavendie said impatiently: `Voyons, Henriette, causez d'autre chose.'
His wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him the look of a dog that had been rebuked.
`I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave the house. Here I live day after day-my husband is always painting. Who would go out alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds of the war in every face? I prefer to keep my room. My husband goes painting; every face he sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. But I am a prisoner. Monsieur Barra is our first visitor for a long time.'
The soldier raised his face from his fists. `Prisonnier, madame! What would you say if you were out there?' And he gave his thick giggle. `We are the prisoners, we others. What would you say to imprisonment by explosion day and night, never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! le.r tranchees! It's not so free as all that, there.'
`Everyone has his own prison,' said Lavendie bitterly. 'Mademoiselle, even, has her prison-and little Chica, and her doll. Everyone has his prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle.'
`Moi!' said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. `I paint puddles, star-bombs, horses' ribs-I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and wire and wire, and water-long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare-nightmare-all day and all night-I paint them in my head.' He suddenly ceased speaking and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. `And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,' he added suddenly and loudly, `millions of Belgians, English, French, even the Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!'

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE And how he paints-all day long; and all night in his head. And so you would not let him paint you, after all?' Lavendie said impatiently: `Voyons, Henriette, causez d'autre chose.' His wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him what is look of a dog that had been rebuked. `I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave what is house. Here I live day after day-my husband is always painting. Who would go out alone under this grey sky of yours, and what is hatreds of what is war in every face? I prefer to keep my room. My husband goes painting; every face he sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. But I am a prisoner. Monsieur Barra is our first what is or for a long time.' what is soldier raised his face from his fists. `Prisonnier, madame! What would you say if you were out there?' And he gave his thick giggle. `We are what is prisoners, we others. What would you say to imprisonment by explosion day and night, never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! le.r tranchees! It's not so free as all that, there.' `Everyone has his own prison,' said Lavendie bitterly. 'Mademoiselle, even, has her prison-and little Chica, and her doll. Everyone has his prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle.' `Moi!' said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. `I paint puddles, star-bombs, horses' ribs-I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and wire and wire, and water-long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare-nightmare-all day and all night-I paint them in my head.' He suddenly ceased speaking and relapsed into contemplation of what is carpet, with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. `And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,' he added suddenly and loudly, `millions of Belgians, English, French, even what is Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!' 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 168 where is p align="center" where is strong Saint's Progress where is p align="justify" And how he paints-all day long; and all night in his head. And so you would not let him paint you, after all?' Lavendie said impatiently: `Voyons, Henriette, causez d'autre chose.' His wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him what is look of a dog that had been rebuked. `I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave what is house. Here I live day after day-my husband is always painting. Who would go out alone under this grey sky of yours, and what is hatreds of the war in every face? I prefer to keep my room. My husband goes painting; every face he sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. But I am a prisoner. Monsieur Barra is our first what is or for a long time.' what is soldier raised his face from his fists. `Prisonnier, madame! What would you say if you were out there?' And he gave his thick giggle. `We are what is prisoners, we others. What would you say to imprisonment by explosion day and night, never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! le.r tranchees! It's not so free as all that, there.' `Everyone has his own prison,' said Lavendie bitterly. 'Mademoiselle, even, has her prison-and little Chica, and her doll. Everyone has his prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle.' `Moi!' said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. `I paint puddles, star-bombs, horses' ribs-I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and wire and wire, and water-long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare-nightmare-all day and all night-I paint them in my head.' He suddenly ceased speaking and relapsed into contemplation of what is carpet, with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. `And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,' he added suddenly and loudly, `millions of Belgians, English, French, even what is Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!' where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") % travel books: Saint's Progress (1935) books

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