All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. In his way he was critical. ’ Even as they watched, a shadow passed across one of the apertures. ’ Amusement flickered in Gerald’s breast. “Useless—worse than useless. And this is not France, you understand. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. ’ The sergeant’s air became positively avuncular.
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