And
the crowd thinned, and even before the sun dipped a faint young moon,
almost as if wearing a veil, came up against the blue. They were quiet
now with pleasant fatigue, and, propped up on his elbows, he spilled
little rills of sand from one fist into the other.
"Gee! you're pretty, Marylin!"
"Are I, Getaway?"
"You know you are. You wasn't born with one eye shut and the other
blind."
"Honest, I don't know. Sometimes I look in the mirror and hope so."
"You've had enough fellows tell you so."
"Yes, but--but not the kind of fellows that mean by pretty what _I_ mean
by pretty."
"Well, this here guy means what you mean by pretty."
"What do you mean by pretty, Getaway?"
"Pep. Peaches. Cream. Teeth. Yellow hair. Arms. Le--those little holes
in your cheeks. Dimples. What do I mean by pretty? I mean you by pretty.
Ain't that what you want me to mean by pretty?"
"Yes--and no--"
"Well, what the--"
"It's all right, Getaway. It's fine to be pretty, but--not
enough--somehow.
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