Then Fanny shut her eyes, and I think her lower
lip trembled just a little. And Clarence patted her hand
just twice.
"I thank you," he said, "in the name of that much-abused
lady known as Nature."
Said Fanny, "I want to scramble up to the top of one of
those dunes--the high one--and just sit there."
And that is what they did. A poor enough Sunday, I suppose,
in the minds of those of you who spend yours golfing at the
club, or motoring along grease-soaked roads that lead to a
shore dinner and a ukulele band. But it turned Fanny
Brandeis back a dozen years or more, so that she was again
the little girl whose heart had ached at sight of the pale
rose and, orange of the Wisconsin winter sunsets. She
forgot all about layettes, and obstetrical outfits, and
flannel bands, and safety pins; her mind was a blank in the
matter of bootees, and catalogues, and our No. 29E8347, and
those hungry bins that always yawned for more. She forgot
about Michael Fenger, and Theodore, and the new furs. They
scrambled up dunes, digging into the treacherous sand with
heels, toes, and the side of the foot, and clutching at
fickle roots with frantic fingers.
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