I decided to camp where I was. I guided Peg into a field
beside the road, hitched her to a fence, and took the dog into
the van with me. I was too tired to undress. I fell into the
bunk and drew the blankets over me. As I did so, something
dropped down behind the bunk with a sharp rap. It was a
forgotten corncob pipe of the Professor's, blackened and
sooty. I put it under my pillow, and fell asleep.
Monday, October seventh. If this were a novel about some
charming, slender, pansy-eyed girl, how differently I would
have to describe the feelings with which I woke the next
morning. But these being only a few pages from the life of a
fat, New England housewife, I must be candid. I woke feeling
dull and sour. The day was gray and cool: faint shreds of
mist sifting up from the Sound and a desolate mewing of
seagulls in the air. I was unhappy, upset, and--yes--shy.
Passionately I yearned to run to the Professor, to gather him
into my arms, to be alone with him in Parnassus, creaking up
some sunny by-road. But his words came back to me: I was
nothing to him. What if he didn't love me afterall?
I walked across two fields, down to the beach where little
waves were slapping against the shingle.
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