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and there he read the date, and I quote, "1885-1914," and
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automatically he did the arithmetic, twenty-nine years.
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Suddenly he was struck by an idea that shook his very being.
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He was forty-years-old.
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The man buried under that slab who had been his father was actually
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younger than him, and the wave of tenderness and pity that once filled his heart
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was not the stirring of the soul that leads the son to the memory of the vanished father,
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but the overwhelming compassion that a grown man feels for an unjustly murdered child;
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something here was not in the natural order,
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and in truth there was no order but only madness and chaos when the son was older than the father.
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Second specificity: death was also experienced by the soldiers in a very solitary way.
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Well, you'll tell me it's of course very common in wartime.