“Has it made such a difference to you, Genevieve, finding out that I am a deserter?”
“No, of course not,” she said hastily.
“I think it has, Genevieve.... What do you want me to do? Do you think I should give myself up? A man I knew in Paris has given himself up, but he hadn't taken his uniform off. It seems that makes a difference. He was a nice fellow. His name was Al, he was from San Francisco. He had nerve, for he amputated his own little finger when his hand was crushed by a freight car.”
“Oh, no, no. Oh, this is so frightful. And you would have been a great composer. I feel sure of it.”
“Why, would have been? The stuff I'm doing now's better than any of the dribbling things I've done before, I know that.”
“Oh, yes, but you'll need to study, to get yourself known.”
“If I can pull through six months, I'm safe. The army will have gone. I don't believe they extradite deserters.”
“Yes, but the shame of it, the danger of being found out all the time.”
“I am ashamed of many things in my life, Genevieve. I'm rather proud of this.”
“But can't you understand that other people haven't your notions of individual liberty?”