Why bother with personal sorrow

There some lovely woman in the world, there happened to be bright and shape of the eyes, and not at the moment, not in a timid glance immediately call we are tempted, but is not present in the heartless creature, and magical charm still exists, burning eyes always stored in the dark, so as to accumulate over a long period of a blazing light, our heart is. Whatever the eyes of Lisa Poonin, now Lisa Winder, are, if you think about them, they seem to reveal their essence, sparkling like jewels, and then stare at you with a blank, blue, watery light, as if the sun and the sea were splashing in your own eyes. Her eyes were clear, pale blue, with black lashes and pink corners, and they were slightly upturned at the sides, with a few slight wrinkles fanning out inconspicuously. She had dark brown hair on her bright forehead, a pale red complexion, a faint lipstick on her lips, and a plump, lively, natural, unembellished beauty that was unmistakable, except for a little fat at the ankles and wrists.

At that time, Punin was a promising young scholar, a mermaid of a brighter color than she is now, but almost identical in character, when they met in Paris around 1925. He had a thin, tawny beard (a white bristle which would break out if he did not shave now -- poor Punin, poor albino porcupine!) His ascetic moustache, with a fat, bare nose and innocent eyes, was the perfect physical representation of the old-school Russian intellectual. He made his living with a little job at the Aksakov Institute in the Rue de la Verde, and a part-time job at a Russian bookstore run by Saul Bargrove in the Rue de Gresse. Lisa package fruit column puff is a medical student, has just turned 20 years old, dressed in her short black silk blouse and tailors skirt, looks very beautiful, she has to work in the Morton sanatorium, dean is the excellence and formidable old lady Laura Dr Stone tower, one of the most destructive psychiatrists today; Besides that, Lisa wrote poetry -- mostly in a halting iambic style; Seriously, pnin is at some youth literature party exiled poet above once met with her, they are all in the pale, no joy of youth had left Russia, now obliged to recite some miss hometown honor to a country, the country for them than a bad popular toys, as well as from the attic to find small ornament, More meaningful was a crystal ball, in which, if you shook it, a shower of sparkling snow fell upon a little fir-tree made of cardboard, and upon a little house. Punin wrote her an affectionate letter -- now kept in a private collection -- and she read it with tears of self-pity, just as she was recovering from a poisoning suicide, caused by a rather foolish love affair with a man of letters who was now -- well, not to mention him here. Her close friends, the five analysts, all said, "Puning -- well, there'll be a baby born soon."

Marriage did little to change their way of life, except that she moved into the squalid apartment in Puning. He went on with his Slavic studies, and she went on with her Psychodramatics -- improvisational plays based on the actual problems of the lives of the mentally ill, in which the person and the person concerned participate in the play to give the patient relief. "And her oviposition poetry, which lay everywhere like coloured eggs on Easter, and which was widely admired by those who described the children she would have, the lovers she would have, and St. Petersburg (a mere copy of Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966), the Russian symbolist poetess, Petersburg in 1912, and there were many early imitators of "chamber poetry.") Every tone, every image, every metaphor has already been used by other poets. In the hold of her people have a banker is a straightforward patron of art, he in the exile in Paris, chose a very influential in the Russian literary critic of zor, meets the ulam, please him in "wu" tropicana g restaurant for a meal with the feast of champagne, called the old boy in he designed for a Russian newspaper writing the next issue of column with holding lisa's poem to well, Zolczyk placed Akhmatova's laurel crown on Lisa's curly chestnut head with ease, and Lisa wept with joy -- as if she had been elected Miss Michigan or Rose Queen of Oregon. Uninformed, Puning cut out the shameless puff, folded it up and tucked it in his serious notebook, and often took it out and read a few innocent passages to this or that interested friend, until the clipping was crumpled and dirty. He is no knowledge on more serious things, one day in December 1938, he put the mutilated review article posted at the time of a clip book, lisa suddenly from merton called and said she will be a understand her "self" organic man to montpellier, Eric is the person that wind doctor, so she didn't come back to the iron murphy. An unknown Frenchwoman with red hair came and took away Lisa's things, saying to him, "Now, you cellar rat, there will be no more taper dessus." A month or two later, Winder sent a somewhat sympathetic and apologetic letter in German to Lieber Herr Pnin (German, dear Mr. Punin). Promise: He, Dr. Winder, is eager to marry "the woman who comes out of your circle and into mine." Puning, of course, will agree to divorce with her, just like his life dedicated to her willingly, but also offer some cut wet flowers, with a little green leaves, also simply neatly strapped it, just like in the rainy season makes mirror grey green clay flavor is very thick flower shop during Easter. But Dr. Winder already had a wife in South America, an evil one and a false passport, and did not want to be disturbed until some of her own plans were clear. Meanwhile, the New World was calling Punin, and a good friend of his, Professor Constantine Sado, was offering him all the help he could get from New York to move to the United States. Punin informed Dr. Winder of his plans, and sent Lisa the latest issue of one of the exiles' magazines, for her name was mentioned on page 220. The Nansen Passport, issued by the League of Nations (1920-1946) to a stateless person, was issued by a European bureaucrat (a sort of parole card for Russian exiles). , when applying for leave must meet help master set up barriers, that is like to go through hell pond (it made the Soviet union official was happy), half of puning already go through the hell, all of a sudden a somber tide in April 1940 days, his door ringing, lisa drag, She came in, panting from exhaustion, with a small cupboard of seven months 'pregnant, and, taking off her hat and kicking off her shoes, declared that it had all been a great mistake, and that she was still Punin's faithful and lawful wife from now on, ready to follow him wherever he went -- even across the sea. That for a while, is probably the most happiness puning ever - a lasting heavy and painful happiness passion - day, so he will speed up the pace of visas, prepares to pack to a deaf and dumb doctor gave him a physical check-up, with a pack a kind of stethoscope on top of puning several clothes to hear his heart jump very asymmetrical, The great help of the kindly Russian wife (a relative of mine) who worked at the American consulate, and the trip to Bordeaux, on that beautiful, clean ocean liner -- it was all rich in mythology. He not only prepared to wait for the child born as to raise their own children, and do devotedly hoping to do that, lisa with satisfaction, somehow, a bit like a cow expression he explained to the child's education plan in the future, because it seems he really have heard abut baby crying and will soon head of say a word. She had always been fond of sugar-coated almonds, and now she had consumed an astonishing quantity (two pounds on the way from Paris to Bordeaux), and the ascetic Punin, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, watched with delight and awe as she gorged herself; Those dragees, sugar-coated almonds. The silky coat and her taut skin, her complexion and her seamless teeth were permanently imprinted on his mind.

Somewhat disappointily, as soon as she got on board, she glanced at the rolling sea, said, "Nu, eto izvinite," and immediately retired to her cabin, where she spent most of the transatlantic journey lying flat on her back. In the same cabin were three chatty wives of three terse Poles, who -- a wrestler, a gardener, and a hairdresser -- were Punin's companions in the cabin. On the third night, long after Lisa had gone to bed and Punin was sitting alone in the lounge, a former Frankfurt newspaper editor -- a somber old man in a turtleneck and bloomers -- suggested a game of chess, which he accepted with pleasure. Neither of them was a good chess player, but they liked to abandon their children when their calculations were wrong, in a desperate attempt to win; The match was enlivened by Punin's strange German (" Wenn Sie so, Dann ich so, und Pferd fliegt." (Devon, you go this way, I'll go this way, and then Pegasus.) ). It wasn't long before he leaned over to another passenger and said Entschuldigen Sie. Is he allowed to watch? Then he sat down beside them. He had cropped red hair and long, pale eyelashes that looked like a capsfish, and wore a ragged double-breasted coat. In a few moments, whenever the old man, after some solemn reflection, took a hesitant step, he uttered a little cry and shook his head. Finally, the obviously expert and helpful observer involuntarily pushed back a pawn his compatriot had just moved, pointing his trembling middle finger at the cart, which the old man of Frankfurt had rampaged under the armpit of Punin's defence. Our friend had lost, of course, and was about to leave the lounge when the expert came up and said Entschuldigen Sie, would he please talk to Herr Pnin? Can I talk to you for a minute? (" I know your great name, you see, "he added, raising his useful middle finger) -- he suggested they go to the pub together for a beer. Punin agreed, and as the large glass was placed before them, the polite stranger went on: "Life is like a game of chess, and it is useful to analyze one's motives and aims. The day I boarded, I was like a naughty child. But the next morning I began to fear that a shrewd husband -- not a compliment, but a calculated assumption -- would sooner or later look at the passenger list. Today, my conscience has questioned me and found me guilty. I can't stand any more of this cheating. I wish you good health. Well, it's not the luscious drink we have in Germany at all, but it's better than Coca-Cola. I'm Dr. Eric Winder; I am sure the name is familiar to you."

Punin stood there, his face twitching, one palm still resting on the wet bar, and began to shuffle down his uncomfortable high round stool, while Wende clutched his sleeve with five long sensitive fingers.

"Lasse Mich, Lasse mich. (Devon, let me go, let me go.) "Howled Punin, trying to free himself from the soft, begging hand.

'Don't do that! Wind said. "Be fair. The sinner always has the last word; It is his right. Even the Nazis admit this. First of all -- I would like your permission to pay for at least half of the lady's journey. '

"Ach nein, nein, nein, (German, oh, no, no, no.) "Said Poonin." End this nightmarish talk. )."

"As you please," said Dr. Winder, and he stressed the following points to the immobile Punin: It was all a trick of Lisa's -- "for our (it sounds like there were three of us) children, you know, to make things easier." Lisa should be treated as a very sick woman (pregnancy can indeed be seen as a death wish); He (Dr Winder) would marry her in America - "I'll go there too." Dr. Winder added this for the sake of exposition; Besides, at least let him (Dr. Winder) pay for the beer. From that moment to the end of this elated to despondent journey, Punin had apparently plunged headlong into his English handbook, treating Lisa with the same tenderness as ever, but keeping his meetings with her as little as possible so as not to arouse her suspicion. From time to time Dr. Winder would come out of nowhere and greet him from a distance with reassuring gestures. Finally, the great bronze statue (the Statue of Liberty). From some color dim, hazy mist rises, drifted off buildings stand over there, ready to accept the fiery sun basked, they are like you in that marked (natural resources, the number of different mirage in a desert) percentage rate chart see each rectangular body height not neat cabalistic, all the while wind doctor decisively approached puning couple, Identify ourselves -- "Because all three of us should enter the land of the free with pure hearts." After an uneventful stay on Ellis Island, Timofey broke up with Lisa.

Despite the complications, Wende finally married her. During the first five years she spent in the United States, there were occasional glimpses of her at certain events in New York; He became an American citizen the same day as the Winders; He moved to Windale in 1945 and did not see or write to her again for six years, though he still heard bits and pieces of her from time to time. His friend Shado had recently (December 1951) sent him an issue of the Journal of Psychiatry containing an article by Dr. Albina Dunkelberg, Dr. Eric Winder, and Dr. Lisa Winder entitled "Group Psychotherapy for Marriage Counseling." Punin used to be known for Lisa's "psihooslin.e" (Russian transliterated from the Latin alphabet). (" Mental stupidity ") Deeply interested and self-conscious, and now, when he might have been indifferent, he still felt a twinge of revulsion and pity. Eric and she now work in a research office affiliated with a Planned Parenthood center, led by the amiable and great giant, Bernard Maywood, whom the mercurial Eric calls "the Boss." With the support of their patron, Eric comes up with a trick (not necessarily his alone) to lure some of the hospital's more docile patients into a kind of psychiatric treatment, a sort of quilting bee. The "tension relieving" group, in which young married women gathered in groups of eight in a comfortable room, casually calling each other by their Christian names, was in perfect harmony, with several doctors sitting behind a table facing them, and a secretary taking notes inconspicuously, The unpleasant things that had happened to everyone in their infancy came up like dead bodies. At the rally cunt can openly discuss their fullest mental disorders of problems faced in the marriage, the unavoidable should involve their spouse, do some comparison each other, afterwards the YeErMen were invited to, in a special "husband team" interview, also freely, cigar respect to worship, pass from hand to hand anatomical diagrams. Punin skips specific reports and medical records, and there's really no need to go into hilarious details here. Suffice it to mention the following: Women group in this or that women have a new home after experience, has been at the third meeting in describing the feeling of her new found account for those not yet lost his sisters listen to god, the discussion immediately appears a kind of active and cheerful atmosphere, "well, the girls, George last night -") that is not enough. Dr. Eric Winder also wanted to develop a program that would allow couples to get together in a joint group. By the way, it was goosebumps to hear him and Lisa smurp the word "group." In a long letter to the anguished Punin, Professor Shado asserted that Dr. Winder even called a pair of conjoined twins "a group." This progressive, idealistic Dr. Wende really yearns for a happy world of siama-joined twins, a structurally connected community, all nations built around a connected liver. "This is nothing but a microcosm of communism -- all that psychiatry," Punin muttered in his reply to Shado. "Why bother with personal sorrow? People ask, isn't sadness the only thing a man really has in this world?"

He suddenly felt that the day he had so eagerly awaited had passed too soon

'Well,' said Jo to her husband on Saturday morning, 'I've decided to tell Timofey that this house is entirely theirs from two to five this afternoon. We should give those poor wretches every chance they can get together. I can run some errands in town, and you can stop by the library."

"It's a lucky day," answered Lawrence. "I haven't the slightest idea of going anywhere or walking. Besides, it wouldn't take eight rooms for them to meet."

Putting on his new brown suit (paid for by the money he earned from his speech at Clemona), Poonin had a hurried lunch at Eggs and Us, and made his way through the snowy park to the Windale bus stop, arriving almost an hour early. Why Lisa was in such a hurry to see him on her way back from a visit near Boston to St. Bartholomew's Preparatory School, where her son was to attend in the fall, Punin did not care to wonder. He knew only that a tide of happiness was rising behind the unseen dam, which was about to burst at any moment. He saw five buses, and on each of them he seemed to see Lisa waving at him from the window as she and the other passengers filed down the river, but after bus after bus she was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly there was a loud voice from behind him (" Timofey, Zdrastvuy (Russian in Latin, hello)!" He turned at once and saw her appear in the Greyhound coach that he had all but guessed would not contain her. Did our friends notice any changes in her? Good God, what change can there be! There she is. No matter how cold it is, she is so effusive. She clung to Punin's head, the seal-fur coat was open to reveal the lace coat underneath, and he could smell the sweet smell of grapefruit at her neck and murmured: "Nu, Nu, vot I horosho, Nu vot." (Russian transcribed in the Latin alphabet, whoa, whoa, that's great, really.) -- It's just a matter of paying lip service to the heart. "Well," she exclaimed, "he's got a nice new set of teeth!" As he was helping her into a taxi, her bright, transparent headscarf got caught, Punin slipped on the sidewalk, and the driver said, "Watch it," and took her bag from him, in exactly the same order as it had happened before.

As they drove down Park Street, she told him it was a traditional English school. No, she didn't want to eat anything. She had just had a big meal in Albany. It was a "fancy" -- that adjective was in English -- school, and the children were playing a kind of indoor tennis played by hand, and his class would have a... (She gave the name of a famous American, with an air of not much excitement, but it was neither a poet nor a president, so it meant nothing to Punin.) "May I say," Punin interrupted, looking down and pointing, "you can see a corner of our campus from here." All this (" Oh, I see, Vizhu, Vizhu, kampus kak kampus "). All the same, nothing new "), and all this, including the boy's scholarship, was done with the great help of Dr. Bernard Maywood (" You know, Timofey, you ought to write him a thank-you some day "). The principal, a pastor, showed her all the trophies Benaud had won when he was there. Eric, of course, wanted Vic to go to a public school, but he was refuted. After all, Reverend Hoppel's wife is the niece of an English earl.

"Here. This is my palazzo. ." Punin joked that he had never been able to pay close attention to her rapping.

As they entered, it suddenly occurred to him that the days he had so eagerly awaited had passed too quickly -- minutes were slipping away, and would soon be gone. He thought that perhaps she would tell him at once why she was looking for him, and that the day might pass more slowly and be truly enjoyable.

"What a terrible place, Kakoy zhutkiy dom." "What a terrible house." ." As she spoke, she sat down in the chair by the telephone and pulled off her high rubber boots -- a familiar movement! "Look at that watercolor picture of the minaret of the Islamic temple. How disgusting! The landlord must be strange."

"No, no," Punin said. "They're my friends."

"My dear Timofey," she said, as he walked her upstairs, "you've had some terrible friends in your life."

"This is my room," Punin said.

"I think I must rest a little in your pure bed, Timofey. I'll read you some poems later. I'm having my old headache again, and I've been fine all day."

"I have aspirin."

"Mm-hmm." "She groaned, the customary negation striking her native tongue.

Punin turned his face away as she took off her shoes, which hit the floor with a thump that reminded him of the days long ago.

She lay down, wearing a black skirt and a white coat, with brown hair and a pink hand over her eyes.

"How are you doing?" Punin asked, settling into the white rocking chair near the radiator. (Make her tell me what it is she wants to see me about, quick!)

'We have an interesting job,' she said, still covering her eyes, 'but I have to tell you, I don't love Eric any more. Our relationship has broken down. And Eric doesn't like his kids. He says he is the father on land, and you, Timofey, are the father on water."

Punin laughed so hard that the wobbly rocking chair creaked under him. His eyes shone like stars and were moist.

She looked at him for a moment under the fat hand, and then said:

"Eric is too hard on Victor. The child must have killed him many times in his nightmares. Besides, with Eric, as I had already discovered, a calm critique confuses rather than clarifies the problem. He's a very awkward guy. How much do you earn, Timofey?"

He told her the truth.

"Well," she said, "not very much. But I suppose you can save some money all the same -- plenty for your needs, your very meagre needs, Timofey."

Two or three times her girdle heaved under her black skirt, with a quiet, quiet, gentle, nostalgic irony -- and Punin blew her nose and shook her head in a dazzled, happy manner.

"Listen to me read a recent poem," she said, lying on her back with her hands by her side, and intoning in a long, deep cadence:

Ya nadela tyomnoe platt 'e,

I monashenki ya skromney;

Iz slonovoy kosti raspyat 'e

Nad Holodnoy Postel 'yu Moey.

No ogni nab.val.h orgiy

Prozhigayut moyo zab.tyo

I shepchu ya imya Georgiy --

Zolotoe imya tvoyo!

(I put on a black suit,

Simpler than a nun;

A cross of ivory

Hanging over my cold bed.

But the spark of carnival dancing

Rekindled in my fading memory,

I whispered to George --

Your golden name! (The poem is written in Russian transcribed from the Latin alphabet, with translation in parentheses.)

'He's a very interesting man,' she went on, without pausing. 'In fact, he's almost English. He had flown a bomber during the war, and now worked in a firm run by brokers who had no sympathy or understanding for him. He was born in an old family. My father was a visionary. He had a sea playground in Florida, you know, a casino or something, but it was destroyed by some Jewish gangsters, and he volunteered to go to jail instead of another man. All the family are heroes."

She paused. The silence in the cabin was more reinforced than broken by the jingling and jingling of the whitewashed heating pipes.

"I typed up a full report for Eric," Lisa sighed, cutting back, "and now he keeps promising me that he can cure me if I cooperate. Unfortunately, I'm working with George, too."

She pronounced the name George the Russian way -- two G's with an accent, two E's with a long sound.

"Well, as Eric said, C 'est la vie. . Oh, there are so many cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. How can you sleep under this?" She looked at her watch. "Oh, I have to catch the four thirty bus. Would you mind calling me a taxi at once? I have something very important to talk to you about. '

At last it came out -- it was too late.

She asked iron murphy to save some money for the boy with a month, because now she can't open mouth to boehner DE mei's - maybe she will die - what's wrong, Eric no matter - at least someone should from time to time to send money to their children, is like his mother sent him - you know, what pocket money - he was going to school with children of rich families. She will write to Timofey, giving him the address and other details. Yes -- Timofeh was a darling, she had never doubted (" Nu kakoy zhe T. Dushka." "). And, oh, where's the bathroom? Could you ask him to call a taxi right now?

"By the way," she said, as he was helping her to put on her overcoat, frowning as usual and scratching about for the two glistening armholes, "you know, Timofey, that you are not a very good brown dress: gentlemen never wear brown."

He sent her away and walked back through the park. Keep her, feed her -- she's the same -- her cruelty, her vulgarity, her charming blue eyes, her bad poetry, her chubby feet, her dirty, cheap, exhausted, childish soul. It suddenly occurred to him: If men were to be together again in heaven (which I do not believe, but let's say so), how could I not let that withered, helpless, flawed thing -- her soul crawl all over me? But, in this world, it is strange that I should still be alive. Life and I still have some value...

He seemed suddenly to be on the verge of a simple solution to the riddle of the universe, quite unexpectedly (for pessimism hardly leads to great truth), when he was interrupted by an urgent request. A squirrel saw Punin coming from under a tree. The clever little animal, with a twisting motion of plant tendrils, climbed up a drinking fountain and stayed on the edge. As Punin approached, it thrust its oval face out at him, puffed out its gills, and let out a thick beeping sound from its mouth. Puning understood what it meant, so he went over and groped for a while, and found the switch that made the water flow when pressed. The thirsty rodent looked at him scornfully and drank for some time from the thick bubbling column of water. "It doesn't have a fever," thought Punin, weeping to himself, keeping his hand politely on the wonderful switch and trying not to meet the unhappy eyes that were staring at him. The squirrel quenched its thirst and ran away without showing him the slightest sign of gratitude.

The father on the water walked on until he reached the end of the road and turned into a next street, where there was a small wooden house with garnet Windows.

"It's unbearably lonely."

At 5:15 p.m., Joan returned home with a bag full of food, two magazines and three small bags to find an airmail from her daughter in the porch mailbox. It had been more than three weeks since Isabel had sent her parents a note saying that she had settled in her husband's hometown after their honeymoon in Arizona. Jo opened the letter hurriedly, the little bag twisted under her arm. It was a letter full of joy and happiness, and she read it in one breath with a feeling of relief and joy, as if everything were dancing before her eyes. She felt something hanging on the door, and when she looked at it carefully, she was surprised to see that it was the set of keys that Punin had always regarded as a little love of her own, hanging in the lock along with her wallet. She opened the door with it, and had hardly entered when she heard a crash and crash from the pantry -- the cupboards being opened and closed.

She put the bags on the kitchen sideboard and turned to the pantry and asked, "What are you looking for, Timofey?"

He came out, his face red and his eyes wide open, and she was surprised to see that his face was a mess of unwiped tears.

"Jiang (Joan), I'm looking for a visa withered, and Su Dasi (puning find scotch and soda, but his pronunciation is wrong, read into" viscous and sawdust, "turned into" glue and sawdust son ".) 'he said forlornly.

"No soda, I'm afraid," she replied with the sober restraint of an Anglo-Saxon. "There's plenty of whisky in that cupboard in the dining-room. But I suggest we get some nice hot tea."

He made a Russian gesture for "give up."

"No, I don't really want anything," he said with a deep sigh as he sat down at the kitchen table.

She sat down beside him and opened a magazine she had bought.

"Let's look at the picture, Timofey."

"No, Chiang. You know I never know what's an AD and what's not."

"You rest, Timofey, and let me tell you. Look, I like this one. Why, it's wonderful. There's a combination of the two concepts -- the desert island and the girl in the smoke. Look, Timofey -- take a look "-- he could do nothing but put on his reading glasses --" here's a deserted island with a palm tree, here's a smashed raft, here's a sailor from a shipwreck, here's a kitten from the ship he saved, and here, on that rock --"

"No way," Poonin said. "A tiny island with palm trees could not exist in an ocean that big."

"But it's here."

"It is unbearably lonely," said Punin.

"Yes, but -- seriously, you're not fair, Timofey. You know you agree with Lauer that the realm of thought is based on a kind of harmony with logic."

"I have reservations about this," said Punin. "First of all, logic itself --"

"Well, we have strayed too far from our amusing subject. Here, look at this picture. Here is the sailor, and here is the cat, and here is the mermaid lounging and rather sad, and look at the smoke above the sailor and the cat."

"Let the bomb go off." "Punin said sadly.

"No, not at all. It's a lot more fun than that. You see, people see these round clouds of smoke as a projection of their thoughts. Now we're finally getting to the fun part. The sailor thought the mermaid had two legs. The cat thought she was a fish through and through."

"Mikhail Lermontov (1814 -- 1841), Russian romantic poet. "Said Puning, holding out two fingers." The mermaid is well described in only two poems. I can't stand American humor even when I'm happy. I should say..." He took off his glasses with a trembling hand, elbowed the magazine out of the way, and sobbed, his head on his arm.

She heard someone opening and closing the door at the gate. Soon after, Lawrence put on a funny look and was snooping into the kitchen. Jo waved him away with her right hand, and with her left she showed him the colored lace envelope on the packet. The knowing smile that flashed on her face simply reflected the contents of Isabel's letter; He reached for the letter and, no longer joking, tiptoed out.

Punin's overly-strong shoulders were still twitching. She closed the magazine and looked at the cover: a group of childish pupils, Isabel and the Hagen children, bare shade trees, a white spire, the bell tower at Windale.

'Doesn't she want to come back? 'asked Jo gently.

Punin, with his head still on his arm, struck the table with his half-clenched fist.

"I don't have any," cried Punin, sucking in the air through his runny nose. "I don't have any, I don't have any left!"