"Can I stay? ... I won't stay long. Shall I talk a little? You just lie there and listen, huh? How about that?"
In spite of his pain and uneasiness, in spite of the darkened room, he was aware of her beauty, beauty of now and Ermenonville: there was serenity in her voice: he thought: if I could raise my head a bit I could see her better, all of her. He moved and pain got him; her voice went out, her face simply wandered off somewhere, leaving a blouse and skirt, an outstretched hand.
"Jeannette..."
Eyes closed he felt that they had never parted: he knew that Suzanne--was that the woman's name?--was a lie: war could not take Jean away now: they would be okay together: maybe they would visit Paris, maybe they would ...
As Jean sat on a chair by his bed, silent, hands in her lap, tears in her eyes, he slept, and, for a while, sagging to one side in her chair, she slept. Sister Blanche woke her, smiling her wrinkled smile, her eyes alight, her cornet in perfect angle.
"He needs to sleep," she said, bending over both of them.
"Yes," Jean whispered. "Are you his nurse?"
"I'm Sister Blanche."
"You sent me the telegram! Yes, of course, of course. I'm Jeannette Hitchcock. He's my ... Orville is mine. I guess you know. I guess my letters told you." She wanted to shed her shyness and hug her.
"I'm so glad you are here. Now, now we'll see. He'll get on his feet again." What a quaint pronunciation: was Jean Canadian, from Quebec? It must be so.