Вино из одуванчиков. Повесть и рассказы

It would be dreadful, wouldn’t it,

and now it was the Fourth of July with rockets slamming the sky and every porch full of now red-fire, now blue-fire, now white-fire faces, hers dazzling bright among them as the last rocket died.

“We’ve had a nice time, haven’t we? It has been very special here, talking every day. It was that much-overburdened and worn phrase referred to as a ‘meeting of the minds.

“I don’t know,” he said.
“Neither do I. That’s what makes life interesting.”

There was no way to tell what she was thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “terribly sorry.”

“Where would you like to go first? I can take you there, you know. I can weave a spell. Just name it. London? Cairo?

such an unheard-of thing as lime-vanilla ice.”

“I know you,” said Bill Forrester. “You’re Helen Loomis.” He hesitated, then continued. “T was in love with you once,” he said.

she held her teacup in her two hands and looked into it.