When they came out they could feel the heat of the sun although the air was still quite cool.  The boy at the filling station had finished with the car.  Ann Nicholson paid him and got behind the wheel.

"If you want to sleep..." she said to Emmett.

"I think I'll smoke a pipe first," he said.  He winced as, trying to find reverse, she clashed the gears noisil.  Then they were on the highway again.

"I'm going to have to buy some things when the stores open," Ann Nicholson said.  "I had to clean my teeth with my handkerchief."

Emmett said, "You can probably get a toothbrush but you won't get much else.  It's Sunday."

"Oh, that's right."

He packed his pipe carefully, lit it and dropped the match into the ashtray above the dashboard.  Relaxing of his spine, sunk down as far as possible on the slick leather seat, he watched the girl's face with a remote sleepy bitterness.  She made him uncomfortable.  Not only did it make him uncomfortable to wonder how far she was from being normal, and to think of the things she had suffered that set her apart from ordinary people like himself, but also she aroused in him the somewhat resentful envy mixed with respect that he had felt, before, in the presence of the uniforms with the rows of ribbons.  He remembered the newspaper clipping and, studying her face, tried to imagine her, in sweater and skirt, perhaps, or disguised as a boy, although it was difficult to see how the fragile face could be made to look like a boy's face even with the hair cut short, slipping down darkened alleys with, at the end, always a large German sentry silhouetted against the light of the street; or crouching in the bushes in the rain while the lightning flashes showed the patrols searching for her; or standing by the window of a shabby room, her profile clear against the sunlight outside as she drew back the curtains minutely to look down at the street where a man in a trench coat, obviously a heavy, stood ostentatiously finding a newspaper.  Because it always turned out Hollywood when you tried to imagine it.  You knew it had not been like that, you had no idea of how it really had been.  When they said "underground" and "Gestapo" it came out Warner Brothers, passed by the state board of censors.

She cranked down the window beside her and the wind pushed at her soft light hair.

"What did they tell you about me, Mr. Emmett?"

He said carefully, "They said you'd had a pretty rugged time of it in France.  Undergrounds and Gestapo and stuff.  They said that after you came back you'd shown an aversion to society for a while and that you'd apparently forgotten some things the doctor thought you ought to want to remember...."

She said quickly, "Why?  Why should I have to remember something like that?  I remember quite enough of it to know I don't want to know the rest!"  Then she smiled.  "I'm sorry.  I've got so I go defensive about it quite automatically.  Of course I want to remember."

"They said something about a man named Kissel," Emmett said.

"Oh," she said.  "Yes.  I thought they'd probably guessed."

"I'm not supposed to be telling you this," Emmett said.  "It's supposed to be entirely your own idea."

She laughed.  "What did they say about Dr. Kissel?" she asked after a pause.

"That he was teaching at some college near Denver.  That you think he knows what happened to you during the time you've forgotten about.  That you're afraid of trying to remember until somebody tells you that it isn't going to hurt.  It sounds a little screwy to me."

She threw him a quick glance. "Oh, it does, Mr. Emmett?" she said, rather stiffly.

"Well," he said.  "I can see you wanting, and I can see you not wanting, but this half-ass business, if you'll pardon the expression, kind of puzzles me."

She asked, "And what do you know about amnesia, Mr. Emmett?"

Her tone of voice annoyed him.  He was tired and sleepy and the situation embarrassed him, and he did not give a damn what he said.

"That it's generally faked," he said.