“This war will never be over,” she said in a dull monotone. “It’s still 1918 really: the same war. It never ended. We only thought it did. It’s the same one, and it’s going to go on for a hundred years. Oh, they’ll change the uniforms and tanks and planes, they’ll talk about different objectives, different war aims but it’ll be the same broken, gasping bodies in the wards, the same forlorn little burial parties nobody knows or cares about. It’ll go on and on because we can’t let it alone. We’ve become more fond of war than of anything else … Look!” she commanded, sweeping the room with her
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