Margaret ignores the tips of her fingers, stained red, and carefully adds another coat to her nails. She tries, in vain, to cover the traces of blood that refuse to scrub clean. Outside, the war storms on. A soft curse escapes her lips as the quaking outcome of artillery shots causes her to slip, smudging her cautious work.
"Margaret, I tell you, it's just not fair!"
"Oh, Frank." She looks up, exasperated, glaring at her ruined nail. "We're in a war, surrounded by death, starvation, and filth. Of course it's not fair." Lifting a hand, she gingerly blows on it.