Up on that sunny hillside, with the sea winds round me and the whaups calling, I got a chill in my spine when I thought of him.
I am ashamed to confess it, but I was also horribly hungry.

There was something about the war that made me ravenous, and the less chance of food the worse I felt.

If I had been in London with twenty restaurants open to me, I should as likely as not have gone off my feed.

That was the cussedness of my stomach.

I had still a little chocolate left, and I ate the fisherman's buttered scones for luncheon, but long before the evening my thoughts were dwelling on my empty interior.
I put up that night in a shepherd's cottage miles from anywhere.