He doesn't
say much, either. That's the funny part of it. I do all
the talking, seems, when I'm with him. But I find myself
saying things I didn't know I knew. He makes you think
about things you're afraid to face by yourself. Big things.
Things inside of you." She fell silent a moment, sitting
cross-legged before the bag. Then she got up, snapped the
bag shut, and bore it across the room to a corner. "You
know he's gone, I s'pose."
"Gone?"
"To those mountains, or wherever it is he gets that look in
his eyes from. That's my notion of a job. They let him go
for the whole summer, roaming around being a naturalist,
just so's he'll come back in the winter."
"And the column?" Fanny asked. "Do they let that go, too?"
"I guess he's going to do some writing for them up there.
After all, he's the column. It doesn't make much difference
where he writes from. Did you know it's being syndicated
now, all over the country? Well, it is. That's the secret
of its success, I suppose. It isn't only a column written
about New York for a New York paper.
Pages:
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415