As our carriage stopped before the door of the large white building in
X---- that seemed just like the large white building in O----, the
little officer was again at our side.
"I've got contusion ..." he said. "I'm very unhappy, and I don't know
where to go."
Trenchard felt now as though in another moment he would tumble back
again into his nightmare of yesterday. The house at X---- indeed was
fantastic enough. I feel that I am in danger of giving too many
descriptions of our various halting-places. For the most part they
largely resembled one another, large deserted country houses with
broken windows, bare walls and floors, a tangled garden and a tattered
collection of books in the Polish language. But this building at X----
was like no other of our asylums.
It was a huge place, a strange combination of the local town-hall and
the local theatre. It was the theatre that at that early hour in the
morning seemed to our weary eyes so fantastic. As we peered into it it
was a huge place, already filled with wounded and lighted only by
candles, stuck here and there in bottles.
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