( A war. A war, he says. Well, she's never — and wants to go back to it, does he? Must've been hit in that great melon, his head. Or suppose it's the... the shock of it?

...must be. Mariol's never known the like, but she's heard things, says Mr. Grove two doors down, and he knows plenty of the world, says him sometimes soldiers get ideas, all sorts. It's how generals get them to do the citadel's bidding, teach them strange notions.

Well, nothing a bit of home loving won't cure, and here's another potato cake gently joining Finn's stack, to help along the cause. )

Well, course you're a soldier, look at you, so dashing and so strong. I bet you could do all manners and sorts with your... your great... big... gun? Was it a gun, dear? Well, don't tell the other children, it'll give'em frights.

( Shouldn't be thinking of it much herself, not if she wants her sleep. Back to the burner, then, to start oats and old bread for fresh pan toasting. )

And I hear you, I do, aren't you sweet? All I'm saying is, we take you to Mr. Haliburton a little down the road, and he's got himself a jolly trade with paint and grouting, and why shouldn't he show you? It's good work, and what's to say you don't like it? Plenty of men grow up honest and decent, laying down tiles.

( ...and none of this war business. )