Yet she knew that, with the war, the world
call would be gone. Not again, for her, detached, impersonal
service. She was not of the great of the earth. What she wanted,
quite simply, was the service of love. To have her own and to
care for them. She hoped, very earnestly, that she would be able
to look beyond her own four walls, to see distress and to help it,
but she knew, as she knew herself, that the real call to her would
always be love.
She felt a certain impatience at herself. This was to be the
greatest day in the history of the world, and while all the earth
waited for the signal guns, she waited for a man who had apparently
determined not to take her back into his life.
She went out onto her small stone balcony, on the Rue Danou, and
looked out to where, on the Rue de la Paix, the city traffic moved
with a sort of sporadic expectancy. Men stopped and consulted their
watches. A few stood along the curb, and talked in low voices.
Groups of men in khaki walked by, or stopped to glance into the shop
windows.
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