With the dried blood stiff on my temples I climbed the hill, cursing the satanic way of men, yet knowing myself vile, for they had not known what they were doing, but I betrayed an innocent; and the tears- weak, whiskey tears- would not wash from my brow the blood of a little brother. (Henry Williamson)

With the dried blood stiff on my temples I climbed the hill, cursing the satanic way of men, yet knowing myself vile, for they had not known what they were doing, but I betrayed an innocent; and the tears- weak, whiskey tears- would not wash from my brow the blood of a little brother.

Henry Williamson

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