"oh, that." he grinned rather sfully. "they do us a grand favor, rusty andmag. we laugh over it: how they think they break our hearts when all the time wewant them to run away. i assure you, we were laughing when the sadness came."
his eyes searched the litter on the floor; he picked up a ball of yelloer. "this,"
he said.
it was a telegram from tulip, texas: received notice young fred killed in aoverseas stop your husband and children join in the sorrow of our mutual loss stopletter follows love doc. holly never mentioned her brain: except once.
moreover, she stopped calling me fred. june, july, all through the warm months shehibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had e and gone. herhair darkened, she put o. she became rather careless about her clothes:used to rush round to the delicatessen wearing a rain-slicker and nothingunderh. jose moved into the apartment, his name replag mag wildwoods onthe mailbox. still, holly was a good deal alone, for jose stayed in washington threedays a week. during his absences she eained no one and seldom left theapartment -- except on thursdays, when she made her weekly trip to ossining.
which is not to imply that she had lost i in life; far from it, she seemedmore tent, altogether happier than id ever seen her. a keen sudden un-holly-likeenthusiasm for homemakied in several un-holly-like purchases: at a parke-ber au she acquired a stag-at-bay hunting tapestry and, from the williamrandolph hearst estate, a gloomy pair of gothic "easy" chairs; she bought theplete modern library, shelves of classical records, innumerable. metropolitanmuseum reprodus (including a statue of a ese cat that her own cat hatedand hissed at and ultimately broke), a waring mixer and a pressure cooker and alibrary of cook books. she spent whole hausfrau afternoons slopping about in thesweatbox of her midget kit: "jose says im better than the y. really, whowould have dreamed i had such a great natural talent? a month ago i couldntscramble eggs." and still couldnt, for that matter. simple dishes, steak, a propersalad, were beyond her. instead, she fed jose, and occasionally myself, outre soups(brandied black terrapin poured into avocado shells) nero-ish ies (roastedpheasant stuffed with pomegranates and persimmons) and other dubious innovations(chi and saffron rice served with a chocolate sauce: "a indian classic, mydear.") wartime sugar and cream rationiricted her imaginatio cameto sweets -- heless, sh
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