Вино из одуванчиков. Повесть и рассказы

“Don’t you feel funny?” asked Helen.
We’re practically the only walking people out in the open in a thousand miles, I bet.”

And tomorrow we’ll have a picnic lunch at Electric Park.

and there was Mr. Terle, not saying anything to anybody, alone on his swing, having a last cigar. They saw the pink ash swinging gently to and fro.

Now the lights were going, going, gone. The little house lights and big house lights and yellow lights and green hurricane lights,

everything felt locked up in brass and iron and steel, everything, thought Lavinia, is boxed and locked and wrapped and shaded.

I promise I’ll phone when I get home.”

And here we are, thought Lavinia, our footsteps on along the baked summer evening sidewalk. And above us the 1 lonely street lights shining down, making a drunken shadow.

“Let’s sing,” said Lavinia.
They sang, “Shine On, Shine On, Harvest Moon . . .”

They felt the hot sidewalk cooling underfoot,

Lavinia watching the black trees Bit by each side of her, listening to the voices of her friends murmuring; and the night seemed to quicken, they seemed to run while walking slowly, everything seemed fast