“From that moment she stopped at least two or three times a day in the middle of whatever she was doing to look forward to it. And after that there was Christmas and after that she could always stay in bed and refuse to go back East when the New Year came. The thought of Charles Conway, of never seeing him again, barely troubled her at all from this imagined retreat; nevertheless, she phoned him at once to tell him the good news, and turned off the Saturday cartoons, and let her dad’s old army b...lanket slip off her pyjamaed legs and when Charles said, why don’t you come downtown and we can make a real day of it, she answered repeatingly, ‘I want to see you. I just want to see you.’ Charles had already heard a great deal about the charms of Jack Bostick, but he was, among other things, one of those talkers who had so many afternoons to draw out that there was nothing he couldn’t hear twice or three times and with interest too. They sat together against the hedge of the roof garden at the Met, sharing a cup of tea, and twisting from time to time to get a look at the Park behind them: the wind laying a flat hand over the trees; autumn’s untidiness, the seams picked at and ravelling, litter and leaves scattered against the green.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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