By Katherine Mansfield
With their annual holiday coming to an finish, the Burnells and the Trouts spend the day on the seashore. whereas the kids dig for treasures within the sand, the adults contemplate the fleeting nature of lifestyles and easy methods to live.
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With their annual holiday coming to an finish, the Burnells and the Trouts spend the day on the seashore. whereas the kids dig for treasures within the sand, the adults contemplate the fleeting nature of existence and tips on how to live.
HarperPerennial Classics brings nice works of literature to existence in electronic layout, upholding the top criteria in publication creation and celebrating analyzing in all its types. search for extra titles within the HarperPerennial Classics assortment to construct your electronic library.
Extra resources for At the Bay: Short Story (HarperPerennial Classics)
You’re valid, for one hour,” 48 a. m. h o m e s she says, handing the ticket back. ” She leads him into a room, weighs him, takes his blood pressure and tempera ture, and tells him to hop up onto the table. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. ” “I’m OK,” he says. ” She winks. ” Dr. Lusardi asks, sweeping into the room, his white coat following him. “I was in pain, incredible pain. ” “Fine. I feel ﬁne, and then I remember the pain. ” Lusardi ﬂips through his chart. ” The doctor gestures for him to take off his shirt.
He takes out a ﬁve and a few ones and slaps them into the man’s hand. ” the dining-room hostess asks. ” the hostess asks again. He nods. “This way,” she says, leading him into the empty dining room. Someone hands him a menu, someone else pours him a glass of water, another puts a dinner roll on his bread plate and some butter beside it. He immediately eats the roll. He hasn’t been eating bread—it’s not part of his program. The roll is 52 a. m. h o m e s warm, yeasty sourdough. He eats it with cold butter—he closes his eyes—good.
M. h o m e s atmosphere, hinting at the day to come. He sat in the back, with the windows down, his head into the breeze like a dog. The driver babbled like a bad bartender, talking about everything, anything, nothing. ” He didn’t answer; the last thing he wanted was a confes sional conversation with the cab driver. “Fine, keep it a secret, see if I care. Everyone thinks they’re entitled to keep it to themselves. What do they know? That’s how you get sick, really sick—ulcers, colitis, cancer. I tell people everything, what do I need to keep secrets for?