But maybe you’d be more interested in the American nurse from the Red Cross—Frances, I believe?” Imogene stared off. “She was from… I don’t remember, to be sure. An odd but nice girl. The war wasn’t what any of us expected, for her least of all. She came over here, expecting to meet a nice British boy and fall in love. She had romantic dreams, that one, fancied herself Florence Nightingale who’d wipe the brows of the fallen boys, as if one day there might be a statue in her honor. She left straight away when things got really bad.”
