"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time
after I left you."
"Did you, Beatrice?"
"When I had my last breakdown"--she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat.
"The doctors told me"--her voice sang on a confidential note--"that if
any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have
been physically _shattered_, my dear, and in his _grave_--long in his
grave."
Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker.
"Yes," continued Beatrice tragically, "I had dreams--wonderful visions."
She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. "I saw bronze rivers
lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air,
parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and
the flare of barbaric trumpets--what?"
Amory had snickered.
"What, Amory?"
"I said go on, Beatrice."
"That was all--it merely recurred and recurred--gardens that flaunted
coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and
swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons--"
"Are you quite well now, Beatrice?"
"Quite well--as well as I will ever be.
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