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Chapter 18

           DustcloggedScarlett’snostrilsanddriedherlips.Herlavendercalicodress,sofreshlycleanandstarchedthatmorning,wasstreakedwithblood,dirtandsweat.This,then,waswhatAshleyhadmeantwhenhewrotethatwarwasnotglorybutdirtandmisery.

           Fatiguegaveanunreal,nightmarishcasttothewholescene.Itcouldn’tberealoritwasreal,thentheworldhadgonemad.Ifnot,whyshouldshebestandinghereinAuntPitty’speacefulfrontyard,amidwaveringlights,pouringwateroverdyingbeaux?Forsomanyofthemwereherbeauxandtheytriedtosmilewhentheysawher.Thereweresomanymenjoltingdownthisdark,dustyroadwhomsheknewsowell,somanymendyingherebeforehereyes,mosquitoesandgnatsswarmingtheirbloodyfaces,menwithwhomshehaddancedandlaughed,forwhomshehadplayedmusicandsungsongs,teased,comfortedandlovedalittle.

           ShefoundCareyAshburnonthebottomlayerofwoundedinanoxcart,barelyalivefromabulletwoundinhishead.Butshecouldnotextricatehimwithoutdisturbingsixotherwoundedmen,soshelethimgoontothehospital.Latersheheardhehaddiedbeforeadoctoreversawhimandwasburiedsomewhere,nooneknewexactly.Somanymenhadbeenburiedthatmonth,inshallow,hastilyduggravesatOaklandCemetery.MelaniefeltitkeenlythattheyhadnotbeenabletogetalockofCarey’shairtosendtohismotherinAlabama.

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