yes.

    I can  our glorious troops aken a op-floor-back in Birming of bread. And suddenly t stand it any longer, and s it, ‘S your trap, you little bastard!’ and ts bottom  any bread and isn’t going to be any bread. I see it all. I see ters and tor oil and truncing out of bedroom windows.

    Is it going to ’s impossible to believe it. Some days I say to myself t it’s just a scare got up by t.

    doion of t tAtEMENt. ter caugPONED. King Zog!  a name! It’s next door to impossible to believe a c isn’t a jet-black Negro.

    But just at t moment a queer t I suppose, as I’d already seen times t day, it raffic or tarted memories in me.

    t is a curious t’s ime. I suppose an  your t en or ty years ago, and yet most of time it’s got no reality, it’s just a set of facts t you’ve learned, like a lot of stuff in a ory book. t or sound or smell, especially smell, sets you going, and t doesn’t merely come back to you, you’re actually IN t. It  at t.

    I  Lo y-eigo outill rand, fat and forty-five, eet, but inside me I , Lo ! You knoy, decaying, sis of smell. touc, and per’s a bit overlaid by yello predominantly it’s t s, dusty, musty smell t’s like toget’s powdered corpses, really.

    In t four feet anding on to see over t, and I could feel Motockings pulled up over my knees—o  ton collar to buckle me into on Sunday mornings. And I could  t nobody else got mucer, taker. to sit opposite one anot t. Ser  man ac kind of fell ae different. , gaunt, po sixty, iff gr