The house seemed full of wounded, wagons coming and going.

They were digging graves in the garden, and sheeted bodies were lying in the orchard.
My friends greeted me, seemed glad to see me for a moment, and then pursued their business.

I was entirely outside their life.

Only ten days before I had felt a closer intimacy with Trenchard, Andrey Vassilievitch and Nikitin than I had ever had with any of them.

Now I simply did not exist for them.