"You're lying, Frank. Let's go home."
As we walked home in silence, trailing our sleigh, the nip of the late afternoon stung our cheeks to roses and our breaths trailed behind like the gaseous tail of a very young and leisurely comet. Jean complained that one of her hands was growing cold so I took the mitten off it and drew the hand down into my deep, warm over-coat pocket, where we took all precautions against frost-bite. The other hand had to take a chance.
We walked along the bottom of the gully for shelter from the wind which was rising with sunset. As we neared Twenty-two Jean stopped.
"Frank, I want to ask you a question," she said. "There was no truth in that story you told me?"
"You care?"
"Of course I care. Tremendously."
"Don't you want me to be big?"
"Not that way. I've been talking about intellectual things—spiritual things."
"I suppose Spoof's bathing suit, with the white and yellow, is quite spiritual?"
"That isn't fair."