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.
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