“Bert—we were always going to read Dickens! Do you remember?”
“Do I remember!” He smoked for a while in silence. Then he chuckled. “Do you remember the Sunday breakfasts in the East Eleventh Street flat? With real cream and corn bread? Do you remember wheeling Junior through the park?”
Nancy cleared her throat.
“I remember it all!”
There was another silence. Then Bert straightened suddenly, and asked with concern:
“Nancy—what is it? You’re all tired out, you poor little girl. Don’t, dear—don’t cry, Nancy!”
Nancy, groping for his handkerchief, battling with tears, feeling his kiss on her wet cheek, laughed shakily in the dark.
“I—I can’t help it, Bert!” said she. “I’m—I’m so happy!”