On the road from Rustchuk we had had uneasy slumbers.
I woke next morning and, looking out from the broken window, saw that it was snowing.

With a lot of trouble I got hold of a servant and made him bring us some of the treacly Turkish coffee.

We were both in pretty low spirits.

'Europe is a poor cold place,' said Peter, 'not worth fighting for.

There is only one white man's land, and that is South Africa.' At the time I heartily agreed with him.
I remember that, sitting on the edge of my bed, I took stock of our position.