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Identité Identité :
Cameron ''Butler'' Lynch
 
Sexe
Masculin
 
Fonction IC Fonction IC :
Élève
 
Biographie Biographie :
Cameron Lynch
You have got me wrong

☽Thousand years
Flowers at this time of the year were rare; He was found to decorate all the rifles of the reinforcement and the head in the head, between two dumb hedges of curious, the battalion, flourished like a large cemetery, had crossed the city at the débandade. With songs, tears, laughter, quarrels of drunkards, heart-rending farewells, his goods shipped. They drove all night, ate their sardines and emptied the cans in the light of a mischievous candle, then, braying their arms, they wanted to sleep, packed against each other, their heads on their shoulders, legs mixed. The day had woken them up. Leaning on the doors, they searched the villages, from which rose the smoke of the early morning, traces of the last fighting. On itself wagon wagon. Then, the houses opened their eyes, the roads became animated, and finding again their voice to scream gallantries, they threw their faded flowers to the women who waited, on the mole of the stations, the unlikely return of their husbands left. At the stops, they emptied themselves and filled the cans. And about ten o'clock they finally landed at Dormans, dazed and ground. After a pause of an hour for the soup, they went off by the road - without clique, without flowers, without waved handkerchiefs - and arrived at the village where our regiment was at rest, very close to the lines. There, it was held as a great fair, their tired herd was divided into small groups - one by company - and the quartermasters quickly designated to each a section, a squad, that they had to look for farm in farm, like tramps without the house, reading on each door the large white numbers drawn in chalk. Bréval, the corporal, who was leaving the grocery store, found the three of us as they dragged in the street, crushed under the bag too loaded insolently shone new camping utensils. Third company, fifth squad? I'm the cabot. Come, we are quartered at the end of the village. When they entered the courtyard, it was Fouillard, the cook, who gave the alarm. As soon as he arrived, I realized that Gilbert would be my friend, I understood him by his voice, his words, his manners. Immediately I told him "you" and we talked about Paris. Finally, I found someone to talk to me about our books, theaters, cafes, pretty scented girls. Just the names I uttered made a me relive for a moment all that lost happiness. I remember that Gilbert, sitting on a wheelbarrow, had laid his bare feet the world.
AH
ftg ethan sal moch
NIATHEBESTAUNT
gwenetethan

 
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