William Till lay in Madeline's bed uncomfortably awake. The softness of the duvet stuffed with the best French down prevented him from sleeping. It was in stark contrast to the rough terrain and straw mattresses he had become accustomed to with the army.
It takes its toll on a man at forty two years of age.
Even though he was deathly tired he still couldn't sleep. Maybe it wasn't because the bed was too comfortable; it could possibly be because of Madeline. She was half his age and this was the first time they've shared a bed.

She lay next to him sound asleep. The softness of her skin matched that of the sheets. Her dark brown hair was tied up with a few loose hairs sprawled across the pillow, her body rising and falling with each breath.

William tried to take it all in before he had to leave again, when the chaos of the Western Front will engulf him again. But he held little compassion for the soldiers under him. Of course he tried his best for them, he had to, but the faces all melt into one and eventually you just don't care in the same way. Maybe at the start, maybe in 1914 and 1915 he cared, but not anymore. He's an old man, too old for a young man's game.

It took its toll on a man at forty two years of age.

His detached feeling in the field continued in the French house he returned to each leave. Madame Defour's continuous tuts and huffs at the shabby interior of the house they were evacuated to never cease. She looks at William with contempt, seemingly blaming him personally for the war.
It did not phase him, little did. It was clear how she felt about him and Madeline. Monsieur Defour, though more polite, clearly did not approve of him either. English was not needed to make this assumption. After all, why would they want to learn English? England is the 'old enemy'.
Breakfast in the sunny June morning was silent, like most social interactions in the house. William wasn't hungry, but ate out of politeness, or more the effort to be polite. He sat in his uniform ready to depart immediately after eating.
The time came and no one showed any acknowledgement of William standing up. He slung his rifle around his back, highlighting the mire he will return to. It was only when he took his peaked cap off the table that Monsieur Defour rose and shook hands with him. Madame Senechal sat in her chair and continued to stare at her breakfast, as did Madeline.
Monsieur Defour walked to the door with him. He was a gentleman, even in his abhorrence for William. He cut a good figure in his suit for an elderly man, and sported a fine, thick moustache, a man of a lost age. He opened the door for William and the sounds of the street in the late morning filled the house - the hustle and bustle of soldiers in the street some on leave others returning to the front, carts going up and down the cobbled street and children playing.
William paused before walking out the door, some strange emotion caught him then and he turned to Monsieur Defour. A good foot shorter than him Monsieur Defour looked up at William's broad body, standing at six feet. They made eye contact.
'Goodbye' William said.
'Au revoir Sergent' Defour replied.
William stepped out into the street and proceeded to walk to the train station, to begin his journey back to his company, his men. He turned around to take one last look at where his love, his Madeleine, was staying, so it could comfort him in his thoughts at the front. Madeleine was standing at the door watching him disappear into the moving crowd. Still walking away he raised his arm and waved goodbye, people flitted in and out of his view of her, and she lifted her own hand up and showed him the palm of her hand before walking back inside the house.
He returned to facing the direction in which he was walking. He held that image in his heart, emblazoned in his mind. But he knew that he could never be an André Pascal.

rephrase.

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Having something to say is overrated.
~Adair Lara

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"It takes its toll on a man at forty two years of age."

rephrase.

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overall is it ok?