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Amory, Son of Beatrice
Hereachedoverwithaviolent,jerkyeffort,andclutchedMyra’shand—herthumb,tobeexact.
"TellhimtogototheMinnehahastraight,"hewhispered."Iwantatalktoyou—Igottotalktoyou."
Myramadeoutthepartyahead,hadaninstantvisionofhermother,andthen—alasforconvention—glancedintotheeyesbeside."Turndownthissidestreet,Richard,anddrivestraighttotheMinnehahaClub!"shecriedthroughthespeakingtube.Amorysankbackagainstthecushionswithasighofrelief.
"Icankissher,"hethought."I’llbetIcan.I’llbetIcan!"
Overheadtheskywashalfcrystalline,halfmisty,andthenightaroundwaschillandvibrantwithrichtension.FromtheCountryClubstepstheroadsstretchedaway,darkcreasesonthewhiteblanket;hugeheapsofsnowliningthesideslikethetracksofgiantmoles.Theylingeredforamomentonthesteps,andwatchedthewhiteholidaymoon.
"Palemoonslikethatone"—Amorymadeavaguegesture—"makepeoplemysterieuse.Youlooklikeayoungwitchwithhercapoffandherhairsortamussed"—herhandsclutchedatherhair—"Oh,leaveit,itlooksgood."
TheydriftedupthestairsandMyraledthewayintothelittledenofhisdreams,whereacosyfirewasburningbeforeabigsink-downcouch.AfewyearslaterthiswastobeagreatstageforAmory,acradleformanyanemotionalcrisis.Nowtheytalkedforamomentaboutbobbingparties.
