Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. He squinted and a disgusted look came over him. These dinners, from their lavish display of ambiguous hors d’oeuvre to their skimpy ices in dishes of frilled paper, with their Chianti flasks and Parmesan dishes and their polyglot waiters and polyglot clientele, were very funny and bright; and she really liked Ramage, and valued his help and advice. I need you every day. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint.
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