Some voices question them in passing.
They are dismayed and stupefied; the fists that prop up their yellow cheekbones protrude triangular caricatures of features.

Sometimes, at the cut of a frank question, they show signs of lifting their heads, and awkwardly try to give vent to an answer.
"What's he say, that chap ?" they asked Sergeant Muller.
"He says that war's none of their fault; it's the big people's." "The swine!" grunts Margat.
We climb the hill and go down the other side of it.

Meandering, we steer towards the infernal glimmers down yonder.

At the foot of the hill we stop.

There ought to be a clear view, but it is evening--because of the bad weather and because the sky is full of black things and of chemical clouds with unnatural colors.