Summer 1962 • Vol. XXIV No. 3 FictionJuly 1, 1962 |

Someone with Whom to Converse

All that summer I looked down through the flying keys of my typewriter onto a terrace where a small boy was playing. In fact, the terrace had no business to be there at all; and, even granted the terrace, the small boy had no business to be upon it. The area of tall white post-Regency wedding cakes, in one of which my mistress's flat was situated, had been built in the nineteenth century for the aristocratic, and was inhabited in the twentieth by the rich-not the same thing altogether. Late in 1944, in the undignified tail end of the war, a V-2 rocket had (descended (with theological impartiality as between the just and the unjust) upon the mansion opposite, removing all but the lowest story. The uninhabitable hulk had been requisitioned by the government, put into approximate trim, and sealed off not with a roof but with the flat concrete of this terrace, with a low wall around it. About three weeks after the completion a crack appeared, a thin black lightning at first, then browni

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All that summer I looked down through the flying keys of my typewriter onto a terrace where a small boy was playing. In fact, the terrace had no business to […]

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