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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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"
I
’
m
romantic
too
.
"
They
came
out
of
the
neat
restored
trench
,
and
faced
a
memorial
to
the
Newfoundland
dead
.
Reading
the
inscription
Rosemary
burst
into
sudden
tears
.
Like
most
women
she
liked
to
be
told
how
she
should
feel
,
and
she
liked
Dick
’
s
telling
her
which
things
were
ludicrous
and
which
things
were
sad
.
But
most
of
all
she
wanted
him
to
know
how
she
loved
him
,
now
that
the
fact
was
upsetting
everything
,
now
that
she
was
walking
over
the
battlefield
in
a
thrilling
dream
.
After
that
they
got
in
their
car
and
started
back
toward
Amiens
.
A
thin
warm
rain
was
falling
on
the
new
scrubby
woods
and
underbrush
and
they
passed
great
funeral
pyres
of
sorted
duds
,
shells
,
bombs
,
grenades
,
and
equipment
,
helmets
,
bayonets
,
gun
stocks
and
rotten
leather
,
abandoned
six
years
in
the
ground
.
And
suddenly
around
a
bend
the
white
caps
of
a
great
sea
of
graves
.
Dick
asked
the
chauffeur
to
stop
.
"
There
’
s
that
girl
—
and
she
still
has
her
wreath
.
"
They
watched
as
he
got
out
and
went
over
to
the
girl
,
who
stood
uncertainly
by
the
gate
with
a
wreath
in
her
hand
.
Her
taxi
waited
.
She
was
a
red
-
haired
girl
from
Tennessee
whom
they
had
met
on
the
train
this
morning
,
come
from
Knoxville
to
lay
a
memorial
on
her
brother
’
s
grave
.
There
were
tears
of
vexation
on
her
face
.
"
The
War
Department
must
have
given
me
the
wrong
number
,
"
she
whimpered
.
"
It
had
another
name
on
it
.
I
been
lookin
’
for
it
since
two
o
’
clock
,
and
there
’
s
so
many
graves
.
"
"
Then
if
I
were
you
I
’
d
just
lay
it
on
any
grave
without
looking
at
the
name
,
"
Dick
advised
her
.
"
You
reckon
that
’
s
what
I
ought
to
do
?
"
"
I
think
that
’
s
what
he
’
d
have
wanted
you
to
do
.
"
It
was
growing
dark
and
the
rain
was
coming
down
harder
.
