"
The head of the training school smiled rather wistfully. They came
to her so often now, these intelligent, untrained women, all
eagerness to help, to forget and unlive, if they could, their
wasted lives.
"You want to go to France, of course?"
"If I can. My husband was killed over there."
But she did not intend to make capital of Chris's death. "Of course,
that has nothing to do with my going. I simply want to work."
"It's hard work. Not romantic."
"I am not looking for romance."
In the end, however, she had to give it up. In some hospitals they
were already training nurses helpers, but they were to relieve
trained women for France. She went home to think it over. She had
felt that by leaving the country she would solve Clayton's problem
and her own. To stay on, seeing him now and then, was torture for
them both.
But there was something else. She had begun, that afternoon, to
doubt whether she was fitted for nursing after all. The quiet of
the hospital, the all-pervading odor of drugs, the subdued voice
and quiet eyes of the head of the training school, as of one who
had looked on life and found it infinitely sad, depressed her.
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