Except for some fine works of art, which seem to be there by accident, the City of Brussels is like a bad Paris, a Paris with everything noble cut out, and everything nasty left in.
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At 11 o’clock all further philosophizing was put a stop to; we were ordered to halt, and we were to receive our food from the field kitchen.
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The crude little cottage had been surrounded and two stalwart peasant boys routed out, but only one gun had been found. Each lad stoutly swore that he was responsible for the sniping. The old mother stood near them.
“Choose one or we will shoot both!” the German officer again ordered the old woman.
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