He dropped hat and jacket on a chair.
Lena and her angora, cousin Lena in yellow sweater, Persian slacks, a bird-pin at her throat, barefooted, ponytailed: she smiled the smile of long ago. But there was no turning back.
"I wish we hadn't changed," she said.
"Yes, of course ... but we've changed," he admitted.
"What can we do?"
"Nothing ... but if we could..."
"I was sixteen when you were here last. I was just a kid. Seven years ago ... a hell of a lot of years, with a war tossed in."
"I wondered about coming back ... about us."
"Who escapes change? Half the time Mama's disoriented ... Papa isn't the same..."
"I hear that you're one of the Maquis."