One evening, towards dinner-time he turned up in khaki, the moustache stiff on his long upper lip, his lopping hair clipped. He was another man, a strange man, and she was not sure whether she hated him or not.
But she dried her eyes and dressed her hair, and put on her best gown to do honour to his khaki.
She said, "It'll be like living with another man."
"You won't have very long to live with him," said Lawrence.
And even then, sombrely, under the shadow of his destiny, her passion for him revived; his very strangeness quickened it to violence, to perversity.
And in the morning the Army took him from her; it held him out of her reach. He refused to let her go with him to the place where he was stationed.
"What would you do," she said, "if I followed you? Shoot me?"
"I might shoot myself. Anyhow, you'd never see me or hear from me again."