he was attempting a novel, and then the injunction: 鈥淚f ever you try a short story send it along.鈥�What a pity he hadn鈥檛 tried one,
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$25 oakley sunglasses, after his fever, when he couldn鈥檛 find his father鈥檚 revolver. How long ago all that seemed! There had been weeks when he couldn鈥檛 have looked at those pages, could barely have touched them; and now he was turning on them an eye almost as objective as George Frenside鈥檚 . . . .
You couldn鈥檛 call it a short story, he supposed. It was just the headlong outpouring of what he had felt and suffered during those few hours 鈥�like a fellow who鈥檇 been knocked down and run over trying to tell you what it felt like. That was all. But somehow the sentences moved,
$25 oakley sunglasses, the words seemed alive 鈥�if he鈥檇 had to do it again he didn鈥檛 know that he鈥檇 have done it very differently. It didn鈥檛 amount to much, but still he felt as if it was his own, not the work of two or three other fellows, like the novel. A sudden impulse seized him: he wrapped up the manuscript, addressed it to Frenside,
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Three days afterward 鈥�the last but two of his week
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