"They say it snowed in Paris yesterday," she said.
"Really?"
"I'd rather have snow than so much rain."
"Sure."
The empty hearse passed, grinding in low, bobbing and shaking on antique springs, a vintage Mercedes. The driver swung wide for an intersecting road and brushed against branches, scraping the hood and top. A truck, towing a disabled car, crept toward Senlis, tailing fumes.
I'm crazy ... I didn't have to attend her funeral ... death in a fox hole ... death at ten miles an hour ... cremation ... pneumonia ... you have your choice ... step right up, it's death.
Who am I to want to make love? Have a wife! Have more kids to make more killers! More wars! She ought to walk alone, she and her hypodermics and anesthesias and bed pans! We ought to drink an aperitif, shake hands and call it quits!
"Darling," she said, making an effort.
"What?" he asked bluntly, unable to so much as glance at her.
He hated himself because she was normal, able to communicate, eager to help, able to see ahead.