I
February, 1918.
I am sick of my life—The war has robbed it of all that a young man can find of joy.
I look at my mutilated face before I replace the black patch over the left eye, and I realize that, with my crooked shoulder, and the leg gone from the right knee downwards, that no woman can feel emotion for me again in this world.
So be it—I must be a philosopher.
Mercifully I have no near relations—Mercifully I am still very rich,...
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