And I'm no worse off than everybody else.
So this over-weary world goes, dear Effendi; but the longest day shades at last down to twilight and rest; and so this will be.

And poor old Europe will then not be worth while for the rest of our lives--a vast grave and ruin where unmated women will mourn and starvation will remain for years to come.
God bless us.
Sincerely yours, with my love to all the boys, W.H.P.
_To Frank N.Doubleday_ London, November 9, 1917.
DEAR EFFENDI: ...

This infernal thing drags its slow length along so that we cannot see even a day ahead, not to say a week, or a year.

If any man here allowed the horrors of it to dwell on his mind he would go mad, so we have to skip over these things somewhat lightly and try to keep the long, definite aim in our thoughts and to work away distracted as little as possible by the butchery and by the starvation that is making this side of the world a shambles and a wilderness.

There is hardly a country on the Continent where people are not literally starving to death, and in many of them by hundreds of thousands; and this state of things is going to continue for a good many years after the war.