It formed the one bright spot of colour in
the village; and at night time, when all other sounds were hushed, the
iron wreaths upon its little crosses, swaying against one another in the
wind, would make a low, clear, tinkling music. Joan would sometimes lie
awake listening to it. In some way she could not explain it always
brought the thought of children to her mind.
The doctor himself was a broad-shouldered, bullet-headed man, clean
shaven, with close-cropped, bristly hair. He had curiously square hands,
with short, squat fingers. He had been head surgeon in one of the Paris
hospitals, and had been assigned his present post because of his
marvellous quickness with the knife. The hospital was the nearest to a
hill of great strategical importance, and the fighting in the
neighbourhood was almost continuous. Often a single ambulance would
bring in three or four cases, each one demanding instant attention. Dr.
Poujoulet, with his hairy arms bare to the shoulder, would polish them
off one after another, with hardly a moment's rest between, not allowing
time even for the washing of the table.
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