"I'm going in now, Getaway."
"Gowann! Get into your blue dress and I'll blow you to supper."
"Not to-night."
"Mad?"
"No. I said only--"
"Sad?"
"No--tired--I guess."
"Please, Marylin."
"No. Some other time."
"When? To-morrow? It's Saturday! Coney?"
"Oh!"
He thought he detected the flash of a dimple. He did. Remember, she was
very young and, being fanciful enough to find the witch in the face of
her rooming house, the waves at Coney Island, peanut cluttered as they
were apt to be, told her things. Silly, unrepeatable things. Nonsense
things. Little secret goosefleshing things. Prettinesses. And then the
shoot the chutes! That ecstatic leap of heart to lips and the feeling
of folly down at the very pit of her. Marylin did like the shoot the
chutes!
"All right, Getaway--to-morrow--Coney!"
He did not conceal his surge of pleasure, grasping her small hand in
both his. "Good girlie!"
"Good night, Getaway," she said, but with the inflection of something
left unsaid.
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