A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals.
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