“Does a bear shit in the woods?” He said. He sent me flowers. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. “It’s funny, the way a good house feels. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. When the twins had first come to live in the 208 house, they were thin and bony, their tiny mouths crying for food. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. “I say!” he cried. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent's tenderness. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. But, in spite of her attractions, we shall address ourselves to the younger, and more interesting couple. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved.
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