The Return of the Soldier

by Rebecca West

"But he is ill!" She laid her face against her arms again. "What does that matter?" she wailed. "If he could send that telegram, he is no longer ours."

I suppose the truth is that I was physically so jealous of Margaret that it was making me ill.

grief is not the clear melancholy the young believe it. It is like a siege in a tropical city. The skin dries and the throat parches as though one were living in the heat of the desert; water and wine taste warm in the mouth, and food is of the substance of the sand; one snarls at one's company; thoughts prick one through sleep like mosquitos.