After the rain, the Last Post, the Silence, after the laying of wreaths, the Legion fills. Between sobriety and bathos comes a quiet stage of drunkenness when men remember private wounds -- lost youth, illusion, hope -- when chinks grow wide in the high walls they hide behind, the walls that women never learn to build. A man turns to an old comrade, then, and says, "I was glad to have you at my
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