““Once more into the breach,” he said, turning up his collar. “Wish me luck.” For an odd second, she thought he might lean down and kiss her cheek. “Good luck,” she said. Over her shoulder, she watched him walk away. A slight limp, a favoring, perhaps, of his left leg. A flaw that would, she knew, diminish him in some women’s eyes. Even if he’d been wounded in the war, there would be, she knew, for some women, the diminished appeal of a man who had suffered something over which he’d had no control. Who had suffered disappointment.””