Squab ... peas ... soufflé ... chicken ... omelette ... ham ...
"Umm!" he exclaimed.
The rain was moving about.
He stared at Jean's hair--the auburn, the copper.
As she turned her head the colors changed: hers was a dignified head, heavy eyebrows, smooth forehead, thin nose, good head, loving ... her lashes were darker than her eyebrows.
"Don't look at me like that," she objected earnestly, misunderstanding him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Men glare at me in the hospital," she said.
"It's nothing," he said, frowning, laying down his knife and fork. Have I been staring at her in some crazy way? He forced himself to continue eating; he had not eaten much but he was ready to leave the table. Again he questioned love, how long did it last? A man's love for a woman, a woman's for a man, a child's love for his parents? Life was not much at cherishing love: it had lost that gift if it ever had that gift for any length of time. Now, for love to endure very long it had to mount a machine gun.
A switch clicked in his brain: a small gate opened: a Sherman tank roared through the opening: a farm was burning.