“I’m not going to college, John. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. He cried out but his father only waved 280 like an automaton until the apparition disappeared. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand.
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