"Sit down, my dear."
She had put on a blue serge, lace at the throat, the lace in a broad, open pattern of fully open poppies, very provincial, the ensemble nineteenth century.
"Is Aunt Therèse having supper?"
"It's late ... she's gone to bed ... she didn't want any supper."
"Has she sent for Uncle Victor?"
"I don't know. I hope he can come ... she needs him. I hope I can help her ... I want to do all I can."
Somehow her calm came as a surprise: or was it simplicity and her concern that surprised! He sat at the table, thinking of the new way she combed her hair, curling it on her neck and over her ears and temples. Tiny costume jewels clipped each ear.
"How has it been at the hospital?"
She sat across from him, saying:
"We work in shifts ... I'm in on some of the surgical cases ... they come in fast ... POW's ... civilians ... officers ... it's the Nazis we resent..."