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Description ajoutée par Gkone 2014-10-16T20:35:06+02:00


'Love comes out of nowhere for most of us, when we least expect it . . . this young man has flown into your heart and made a nest.'

Amidst the carnage of Gallipoli, British nurse Claire Nightingale meets Australian Light Horseman Jamie Wren. Despite all odds, they fall deeply in love. Their flame burns bright and carries them through their darkest hours, even when war tears them apart.

Jamie's chance meeting with Turkish soldier Açar Shahin on the blood-stained battlefield forges an unforgettable bond between the men. It also leaves a precious clue to Jamie's whereabouts for Claire to follow.

Come peacetime, Claire's desperate search to find Jamie takes her all the way to Istanbul, and deep into the heart of Açar's family, where she attracts the unexpected attention of a charismatic and brooding scholar.

In the name of forgiveness, cultures come together, enemies embrace and forbidden passions ignite – but by the breathtaking conclusion, who will be left standing to capture Nurse Nightingale's heart?

A heart-soaring novel of heartbreak and heroism, love and longing by a powerhouse Australian storyteller.

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Extrait ajouté par MilieP 2018-05-20T14:06:08+02:00

"Her guide, Gupta, who was clearly used to these scenes, pleaded with a frantic gaze at her. ‘Please, madam,’ he urged, his head shaking in that Indian way. ‘Please,’ he repeated, herding her off the makeshift jetty towards the cliff face and its relative protection to the shamble of tiny awnings that she gathered were serving as the field dressing and clearing station. Claire quickly gathered her wits.

‘I’ll be fine. Gupta, get help for those men in the water; one may bleed to death if he’s not taken onto the ship immediately.’

‘I have to —’

‘I know. But him first. Promise me, or I’ll go and get him myself.’

‘I promise, madam. I’ll go now.’

Looking around, Claire could see it was a shambles. She’d already calculated that there was seemingly nobody in overall command of the embarkation of wounded men at the jetty, which now explained the increasingly steady stream of the walking wounded making their own way onto the hospital ship. Others, less mobile, waited – bleeding, dying – to be ferried out to the transport ships that were also anchored offshore and each evening would make the sailing back to Mudros and then on to Egypt. These ships were rapidly earning the nickname of deathships because there was no medical officer on board, no nurse, and no medical supplies, despite the pledges. Reports were that many were dying from infection or hemorrhaging on the voyage. It all felt so hopeless."

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