The sun was setting. In front of the hotel a man was polishing his car. She saw no soldiers on the street. She ate in a cafe and found the food better than the food at the hospital in Ermenonville. Rethel, old, walled, citadel shaped, was more interesting without the rain: there were neat shop windows; in the tiny square there were pigeons, benches and a fountain with a boy on a stone pedestal, a sheep by his side. In a corner store, near the Racine, she spotted a dress in the window; with a few alterations it would fit, orlon, bright, bright daffodil, tightly belted, the belt-line high. Buying it, she felt encouraged. It was fun altering it in her room, trying it on, powdering herself, lolling, street lamps coming on, the sky trying to make something of its stars. _Carrefour_--the street sign read under her window: sitting in a rocker she read the name many times. In the lobby, she bought a morning paper, hoping for good news. In the taxi, spreading the sheets, she read: ALLIES INVADE NORMANDY. Nazis are retreating. End of war near. Jeannette wanted to shout the news to the driver but his face was so grim she felt he might be a collaborationist. Anyhow, he might have heard the news over the radio. What would Orville say? Should I tell him at once? She went on reading, reading an editorial about the sixty million people who had already died during the conflict. On the phone a nurse had requested that she wait till eleven ... a little before eleven someone beckoned. By that time she had become troubled; in Orville’s room she had to fake gaiety. "Look, darling, I’ve bought a new dress ... for you." She held out her arms to him. "For your one-armed hero," he said. "Don’t say that!" "It’s quite true. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed! You’d better take a good look at what’s happened to me!" 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.