USER: Ochen' kratkoe soderzhanie rasskaza She was like a windmill, six feet, and six arms, too, all of them moving clockwise and counter-clockwise at the same time, while a hard, broken voice clattered steadily in French, on the platform at Gare Saint-Lazare. "Wow." Joe said. "Marry her, Pop. Why not be a dare-devil?" "Let's just find Car A, Seats 1 and 2, and shut up, shall we?" "You're going soft from not being married, Pop, that's all." We took our seats by window, lifted the wall table, so I could put a book there, and we were as good as on our way back to San Francisco, after two months in Europe. The book was a gift from Joe - Origins of the Second World War by A. J. P. Taylor. He'd paid the French equivalent of six dollars for it at Brentano's on Avenue de l'Opera. There was nobody else in the compartment, and then a porter with a suitcase, a satchel, and a briefcase arrived, followed by the owner of the luggage - a Heidelberg man, most likely, because there was a great scar on the left side of his face, from the end of his mouth to his ear. He tipped the porter, smiled, nodded to Joe and me, and took his place. For a minute there was no talk and then the Heidelberg man said, "I make it one minute after five. Is that correct?" "Two," Joe said. "Thank vou." He put his watch ahead a minute, and then Joe said, "You going to the boat?" "Oh, yes. Everybody on this train is." "Are you sure?" "Yes. This is the train to the Hanseatic." There was no more talk for about a minute, and ...