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It was bad enough sleeping in a bombed-out rathole of a house with the sound of artillery blasting across the river. Nobody needed Webster’s angsty, literary chattiness to make it worse.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” he quoted morbidly, “Creeps in this petty pace from day to day—”
Luz stuffed a pillow over his head. “Web, shut up or there ain’t gonna be a tomorrow for ya.”
“—And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!”
Liebgott tossed his canteen into Webster’s bunk. “You’re gonna be choking on my candle in a minute, Shakespeare!”