“Sylvia, could you come out here? I really mean it could you come and visit..?' "Of course I can." said Sylvia's voice. "It just never seems to happen. But sometime we really ought to get together and talk about old times. We'll see. Let's talk again, all right?" Anna stood by the telephone for a long time and stared at the snowdrift through the window without seeing it. A great sadness gripped her. It can be sad having a friend you've admired too much and seen too rarely and told too many things that you should have kept to yourself. I was only to Sylvia that Anna had talked about her work without reservation, boasts and cruel disappointments all jumbled together, everything. And now all of it was there with Sylvia, unloaded on her over the years in dense clot of rash confidences. I shouldn't have called, Anna thought. But she's the only one who knows me.”

—Anna