The picture would not conjure, and finally, because her shoes were full
of bubbles and her damp skirt clung and hindered walking, she boarded a
street car and sat looking out of the water-lashed windows, her throat
full of little moans like the song of a kettle just about to boil.
When she reached home there was an envelope beneath her door. It
contained a snapshot picture of herself and Zoe taken by Mrs. Dupree
one Sunday afternoon. Still wet, she sat down with it on the bed edge.
Against a background of shrub and stone steps Lilly was little more than
a blur, but Zoe, with five little fingers dug into her cheek, leaped
from the picture, all her dimples out.
The mood induced by the opera fell off like a cloak, a warm, easy tear
splashing right down on the adorable little face. She wiped it off ever
so painstakingly, holding the little print up to the gas to dry.
Then she stood it up on the table so she could gaze down and smile while
she undressed, and even placed it on the floor as she leaned down to
unlace her shoes. She climbed into bed with it under her pillow, but
rose in the darkness to transfer it, against crumpling, beneath
the mattress.
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