Hypnotized for an instant, the loss of his arm appalled her again: she couldn't take her eyes off the bandages: so, he would never be able to throw his arms around her or lie on top of her: would he have to buy a mechanical arm? A mechanical hand? Uncertain of herself, sick in her stomach, she stepped to the window to watch people passing below, along the street, the pine tree above roof tops suggesting utter loneliness.
"Turn around," he commanded. "I won't hurt you. It's a nice dress. Don't be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid," she said, but she could not turn around, thinking of his bandaged head, how it made a clown of him.
"What's wrong then? Don't hate me ... that won't help us."
She was trembling.
How could he speak to her that way! His coarse voice, belligerent voice. Would he continue to have intercourse with other women? Would he become a homo?
"Are you going to stand there, like that, with your back toward me?"
Squeezing her hand around her throat, she managed:
"Just let me tell you the news ... the allies have invaded Normandy ... it's in the paper ... I have the paper here." This was her momentary defense.
Facing him, biting her lip, she held out the paper, hoping he would be encouraged by the promised cessation of hostilities.