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table, Dorothy and a man sitting there having a drink. Seeing me, she called, "Are you alone, Forman?" and to the affirmative answer, she said, "Wont you come over and join us?" This I was glad to do although how glad her companion was I'd hesitate to say. However, he proved to be a very pleasant guy--Frank Copley, a Deke from Syracuse, Class of 1929 and we had much in common, including at that moment, Dorothy. When the music stopped, we repaired to the Binnacle Bar, where Frank and I had another bottle of Budweiser and Dorothy a glass of ice water. After that, we played the horses for a while and Frank excused himself to retire.  Neither Dorothy nor I were ready to say uncle yet so we climbed up to the sundeck which at the time was in the moonlight and we stayed up there for an hour and a half talking, smoking and enjoying the fresh breeze and the stars, of which there appeared to be millions. It was one of the pleasantest experiences I'd ever had. Just talking intimately with someone with whom you had a lot in common, someone you liked and admired and you felt liked and admired you.  There was no foolishness.  I never as much as touched her hand nor she mine.  But there was a common ground there that brought us together in a very deep and happy and satisfactory way.  I felt it and I think she did. 

The waning moon, half full, hung 45° in the southeastern sky and cast a long, white path over the rippling water, the scene looking, as she put it, "like silver and dark silk." Far away to the south, a storm must have raged over the land. Brilliant forked lightning flashed in the distant clouds. The day had been hot. The night was warm but the air was soft and clean and refreshing like her, whose sweet, young-girl fragrance carried me back many years. Sometimes the moon, drifting behind a floating cloud, fringed it with light and made a pool of silver off on the dark water. Looking straight up beyond the masts and lines, we saw the stars blinking at us. The SOUTH AMERICAN plowed on through the calm sea, the splash of the wash from the white prow the only sound in all that wide expanse of water and darkness around us. She told me quite a lot about herself--her love of the outdoors, of sports, but most of all, her love of life. She was determined never to grow old, to love life as much at 80 as now. She said, "You know, Forman, sometimes it is all so wonderful that I feel as if I would simply jump about twenty feet in the air." Later, referring to how she loved to listen to waves breaking along a shore, she said, "Lying there listening, is like having someone caressing your brow with cool fingers." To my intimation that her roommate didn't seem to feel things as she did, she said, "I found out that last year she lost both her father and mother within four months and she just hasn't gotten over the awful shock of it yet." I commented on my feeling of futility when looking at something beautiful and not being able to do anything about it.  She said, "Well, after all, you're painting it in your mind, on your memory. That should mean a lot." To