I met a man only yesterday who was recently at the propaganda
department of the Foreign Office, and without going into details he
gave me a very good idea of the good work that is going on in Britain's
canker spots.
Ireland is considered particularly promising to those in the know.
Now for an agitated night! To think that a girl should disturb me so!
* * * * *
Two days have passed, or, rather, dragged their interminable lengths
away, for there is still not a vestige of news. I have been twice to
the flat with no result, except to receive a piece of impertinence from
the porter the last time I was there.
No news.
* * * * *
Still no news, and we sail in forty-eight hours.
_At sea, off the Isle of Wight_.
It is some days since I turned for solace and enjoyment, amidst the
discomforts of this life, to my pen and notebook.
What strange tricks fate plays with us, and how lucky it is that one
cannot foresee the future.
Here I am in U.39--but I must start at the beginning. My last entry was
the depressing one of still no news. Well, I have had news, but it was
like a drop of water in the mouth of a parched-up man. Another
agonizing twenty-four hours passed, and I was sitting in my room about
ten o'clock, trying to resign myself to the idea that the next night I
should be starting out for my third trip without news of her, when the
telephone bell rang. I lifted the receiver and to my amazed joy heard a
voice that I could have recognized in a thousand.
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