A wounded man cried
suddenly: "Oh, Oh, Oh," an ugly mongrel terrier who had attached
himself to our Otriad tried to leap up at him, barking, in the air.
There was a scent of hay and dust and flowers, and, very faintly,
behind it all, came the soft gentle rumble of the Austrian cannon.
Nikitin, splendid on his horse, shouted to Semyonov:
"What of Mr.? Hadn't some one better go to meet him?"
"I've arranged that!" Semyonov answered shortly.
It was of course my fate to travel in the ancient black carriage that
was one of the glories of our Otriad, with Sister Sofia Antonovna, the
Sister with the small red-rimmed eyes of whom I have spoken on an
earlier page. She was a woman who found in every arrangement in life,
whether made by God, the Germans, or the General of our Division, much
cause for complaint and dismay. She had never been pretty but had
always felt that she ought to be; she was stupid but comforted herself
by the certain assurance that every one else was stupid too. She had
come to the war because a large family of brothers and sisters refused
to have her at home.
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