"Yes ... he's our Albert Schweitzer."
At one side of the garden they found a rusty wrought iron bench beside a hedge, half-dried daisies around them, the flowers shredded by the rains, a puddle holding a single maple leaf, skiff-like, near their feet.
"How was your day?"
"Many wounded youngsters. We have to put them in the hallways ... all kinds of cases ... Have the Rondes returned?"
"They came this morning; we had lunch together ... I've been writing a letter ... as I came here Aunt Therèse stopped me on the stair, saying Lena is ... is with the Maquis."
"She confided that to me ... others know."
"It seems that Therèse's worried."
"I guess she is."
Nurses passed through the garden, a few of them saying "hello."
Someone's footprint was filling with rain water and Jean stared at it vacantly, then buried her mouth in his hair, fingers on his face, wondering, vaguely, stupidly, what was going to happen to everyone: the nurses seemed an extension of that everyone.