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🎮 They parted at Charing Cross. Joan would write. They agreed it would be better to choose separate days for their visits to Folkestone. Crouching close to the ground, behind the spreading roots of a giant oak, she raised her eyes. Before her lay a sea of smooth, soft mud nearly a mile wide. From the centre rose a solitary tree, from which all had been shot away but two bare branches like outstretched arms above the silence. Beyond, the hills rose again. There was something unearthly in the silence that seemed to brood above that sea of mud. The old priest told her of the living men, French and German, who had stood there day and night sunk in it up to their waists, screaming hour after hour, and waving their arms, sinking into it lower and lower, none able to help them: until at last only their screaming heads were left, and after a time these, too, would disappear: and the silence come again.!

🏆 One day Joan, lunching at the club, met Madge Singleton. “You won’t mind my running away for a minute,” she said. “I shall only be in the next room.”!

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