“I’ve gotta go. ” A birthday present of a microscope had turned his mind to technical microscopy when he was eighteen, and a chance friendship with a Holborn microscope dealer had confirmed that bent. She must learn wisdom—as God pleases. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Shari’s married and got two kids on her, a boy and a girl, twins, no less. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. How old are you?” She asked. It was a “territory” back then, and many a Frenchman and a Redskin both had been devoured in those caves. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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