"
Between four and five there is more movement in the ward. Groans give
way to yawns. In the windows the blue is paling to grey. Cocks are
crowing now quite close, now faintly, like an echo. Suddenly the world
is filled with work, "washings, brushings, combings, cleanings,
temperatures, breakfasts, medicines, some beds to make, reports, all
fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle, until at last the day-sisters come
and relieve, and yawning at the daylight one eats warmed-up dinner while
the others are having breakfast."
After a seven weeks' absence one was bound to miss many old friends in
the ward. Some had gone home, others were back in the army. Old Number
13, the king of the ward, was still there. He had a dark brown face and
white hair, and was furious if any dared to call him a gipsy.
"I am a respectable farmer," he said, "and I own seventeen pigs, a
horse, and five sheep, a wife, and two children."
He loved to tell of his wedding. It was done in the correct old Serbian
style.
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