"And I'll tell you
nothing before breakfast. The one thing that interests me
this moment is hot coffee. Will you have some breakfast?
Oh, well, a second one won't hurt you. You must have got up
at three, or thereabouts." She went toward the tiny
kitchen. "Never mind, Princess. I'll wait on myself. You
go on with that chicken."
Princess was the kind of person who can fry a chicken, wrap
it in cool, crisp lettuce leaves, box it, cut sandwiches,
and come out of the process with an unruffled temper and an
immaculate kitchen. Thanks to her, Fanny and Heyl found
themselves on the eight fifty-three train, bound for the
dunes.
Clarence swung his rucksack up to the bundle rack. He took
off his cap, and stuffed it into his pocket. He was
grinning like a schoolboy. Fanny turned from the window and
smiled at what she saw in his face. At that he gave an
absurd little bounce in his place, like an overgrown child,
and reached over and patted her hand.
"I've dreamed of this for years."
"You're just fourteen, going on fifteen," Fanny reproved
him.
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