She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers. "But are you really there?" "No, I'm here," answered Jack, leaping down. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. “It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over. Drink the toast, Jack. Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone. I came to see you on my own account.
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