But she knew he was not kidding. But now, now she wanted to put on her clothes, the playful sex mood was over, she wanted to take her skirt and blouse off the nail, hide her sex. The hay and straw became ugly: why was she such a fool, risking pregnancy again? And in this stable! At this time! She was the biggest ass in France! Then, in spite of herself, in spite of her reasoning, she yanked her body over his and hugged him desperately, kissed him desperately, aware of the weeks ahead without him. Like Chuck ... another blindness! All right, then another blindness. Chuck, Chuck, where are we? "Hold me, love me love me," she begged. He cuddled her, mouth to her shoulder, fingers exploring, enjoying her warmth, fumbling at the same time for something had spattered in his brain: a voice, then, a roar, the pressure of fighting, Landel at his cannon, Zinc and his machine gun, all the impotence of violence. He watched her get dressed. She was no longer his. Buttoning the cuff of her blouse, she asked: "Where will you be fighting ... your Corps? "Germany." Eyelids pinched tight, as she slipped on her skirt, she tried to pray, a prayer from her childhood, a prayer her Lutheran pastor had taught: nonsensical, not labelled for adultery, unlabelled for war. "Will your hospital job get any easier?" he asked, pulling on his sock, sitting on the bench. "I hope so..." Dear Orv, I want to be your wife, I want to give you everything you want. Orv, I want to make things easy for you. I want us to have kids. I want us to be happy. It might really happen to us ... we can’t tell. Maybe a farm, a Wisconsin farm, nine acres, white house, red barn, maple trees, pines, birch. "There’s a lot of hay in Wisconsin," she said, in a strained voice, wishing to say something amusing, maybe something sensible. Orville nodded. He was slipping on his shirt. Crows specked the sky ... the swallows were above the field. The sun was much cooler, ready to blink out behind clouds. I’ll take her to Ithaca, to Mom’s house--for a few days. Mom will love her. We’ll hunt for an apartment. I’d rather get started in Ithaca than anywhere else. There used to be a little apartment on Landfair ... pretty good place ... He was purchasing his ticket for the train to Paris, he was showing his fake ID, answering questions. The ticket agent was saying ... Kissing Jean, he forced himself to memorize her overcoat, its scarlet lining, the row of crummy buttons; he made himself memorize her rundown shoes, her wrinkled felt hat ... Lena and Aunt Therèse were standing close to the scaled walls of the depot, smudged plaster, egg yolk plaster: they were standing side by side, Therèse crying. "Write to me if you can," Jeannette said. "I will." "Take care of yourself.’" "I will ... you, the same ... good-bye..." "Au revoir."