She looked so
splendidly alive. She walked to the window, now, and stood
looking down upon New York in early June. Summer had not
yet turned the city into a cauldron of stone and steel.
From her height she could glimpse the green of the park,
with a glint of silver in its heart, that was the lake. Her
mind was milling around, aimlessly, in a manner far removed
from its usual orderly functioning. Now she thought of
Theodore, her little brother--his promised return. It had
been a slow and painful thing, his climb. Perhaps if she
had been more ready to help, if she had not always waited
until he asked the aid that she might have volunteered--she
thrust that thought out of her mind, rudely, and slammed the
door on it. . . . Fenger. He had said, "Damn!" when she
had told him about Ella. And his voice had been--well--she
pushed that thought outside her mind, too. . . . Clarence
Heyl. . . . "He makes you think about things you're afraid
to face by yourself. Big things. Things inside of
you. . . ."
Fanny turned away from the window.
Pages:
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417