I didn't care what
happened to Andrew, or to Sabine Farm, or to anything else in
the world. Here were my hearth and my home--Parnassus, or
wherever Roger should pitch his tent. I dreamed of crossing
the Brooklyn Bridge with him at dusk, watching the skyscrapers
etched against a burning sky. I believed in calling things by
their true names. Ink is ink, even if the bottle is marked
"commercial fluid." I didn't try to blink the fact that I was
in love. In fact, I gloried in it. As Parnassus rolled along
the road, and the scarlet maple leaves eddied gently down in
the blue October air, I made up a kind of chant which I called
_Hymn for a Middle-Aged Woman (Fat)_
_Who Has Fallen into Love_
_O God, I thank Thee who sent this great adventure my way! I
am grateful to have come out of the barren land of
spinsterhood, seeing the glory of a love greater than myself.
I thank Thee for teaching me that mixing, and kneading, and
baking are not all that life holds for me. Even if he doesn't
love me, God, I shall always be his._
I was crooning some such babble as this to myself when, near
Woodbridge, I came upon a big, shiny motor car stranded by the
roadside.
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