You are a fine fellow, Gerald--a regular Fentolin.
Getting on for six feet, aren't you ?" "Six feet two, sir." "A very fine fellow," Mr.Fentolin repeated.

"I am not so sure about the army, Gerald.

You see, there are some people who say, like your American friend, that we are even now almost on the brink of war." "All the more reason for me to hurry," the boy begged.
Mr.Fentolin closed his eyes.
"Don't!" he insisted.

"Have you ever stopped to think what war means--the war you speak of so lightly?
The suffering, the misery of it! All the pageantry and music and heroism in front; and behind, a blackened world, a trail of writhing corpses, a world of weeping women for whom the sun shall never rise again.

Ugh! An ugly thing war, Gerald.
I am not sure that you are not better at home here.