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"
It
's
always
someone
else
's
husband
dies
,
they
say
.
"
"
I
've
heard
that
,
too
.
I
've
never
known
any
dead
man
killed
in
a
war
.
Killed
jumping
off
buildings
,
yes
,
like
Gloria
's
husband
last
week
,
but
from
wars
?
No
.
"
"
Not
from
wars
,
"
said
Mrs.
Phelps
.
"
Anyway
,
Pete
and
I
always
said
,
no
tears
,
nothing
like
that
.
It
's
our
third
marriage
each
and
we
're
independent
.
Be
independent
,
we
always
said
.
He
said
,
if
I
get
killed
off
,
you
just
go
right
ahead
and
do
n't
cry
,
but
get
married
again
,
and
do
n't
think
of
me
.
"
"
That
reminds
me
,
"
said
Mildred
.
"
Did
you
see
that
Clara
Dove
five-minute
romance
last
night
in
your
wall
?
Well
,
it
was
all
about
this
woman
who
--
"
Montag
said
nothing
but
stood
looking
at
the
women
's
faces
as
he
had
once
looked
at
the
faces
of
saints
in
a
strange
church
he
had
entered
when
he
was
a
child
.
The
faces
of
those
enamelled
creatures
meant
nothing
to
him
,
though
he
talked
to
them
and
stood
in
that
church
for
a
long
time
,
trying
to
be
of
that
religion
,
trying
to
know
what
that
religion
was
,
trying
to
get
enough
of
the
raw
incense
and
special
dust
of
the
place
into
his
lungs
and
thus
into
his
blood
to
feel
touched
and
concerned
by
the
meaning
of
the
colourful
men
and
women
with
the
porcelain
eyes
and
the
blood-ruby
lips
.
But
there
was
nothing
,
nothing
;
it
was
a
stroll
through
another
store
,
and
his
currency
strange
and
unusable
there
,
and
his
passion
cold
,
even
when
he
touched
the
wood
and
plaster
and
clay
.
So
it
was
now
,
in
his
own
parlour
,
with
these
women
twisting
in
their
chairs
under
his
gaze
,
lighting
cigarettes
,
blowing
smoke
,
touching
their
sun-fired
hair
and
examining
their
blazing
fingernails
as
if
they
had
caught
fire
from
his
look
.
Their
faces
grew
haunted
with
silence
.
They
leaned
forward
at
the
sound
of
Montag
's
swallowing
his
final
bite
of
food
.
They
listened
to
his
feverish
breathing
.
The
three
empty
walls
of
the
room
were
like
the
pale
brows
of
sleeping
giants
now
,
empty
of
dreams
.
Montag
felt
that
if
you
touched
these
three
staring
brows
you
would
feel
a
fine
salt
sweat
on
your
finger-tips
.
The
perspiration
gathered
with
the
silence
and
the
sub-audible
trembling
around
and
about
and
in
the
women
who
were
burning
with
tension
.
Any
moment
they
might
hiss
a
long
sputtering
hiss
and
explode
.
Montag
moved
his
lips
.
"
Let
's
talk
.
"
The
women
jerked
and
stared
.
"
How
're
your
children
,
Mrs.
Phelps
?
"
he
asked
.
