![Transcription Center logo](/themes/custom/tc_theme/assets/image/logo.png)
This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.
330 Sunday, November 25, 1928 toward the sun with affection and tenderness. So, Anne wondered, was he serious about the car? "Will I see you down here again," she asked him. "I'll be down for a few days in about two weeks when you are," he answered. They they turned back from the sun dial toward the house. Anne looked at the house and the lawns and the sun dial in one glance, just as a [[strikethrough]] sailor [[/strikethrough]] fisherman, putting off to sea in his little boat, glances back at the tiny village, and the small house in which he has been, before he shoves the boat from the shore with a rubber-booted foot and then putts this foot in the boat. Anne looked around her with the strange feeling of satisfaction and sadness, which comes to one when one realizes some place, some incident, lovely in its past reality, will now be lovely, only in the glamour [[strikethrough]] ousness [[/strikethrough]] of retrospect. Then they heard the sound of crunching pebbles, and the swish of automobile tires on the country road, and they saw the car come in the drive. Harry carried her suitcase over. Anne buckled her belt on her coat, looked back again for a second, and followed 331 Monday, November 26, 1928 Harry. Frank, too, wondered why Harry was up and asked him, and laughed at the reason. "It's not going to rain, and if it does, I'll put up the top then." Anne, stepping into the car, turned to Harry, "You got up for nothing, then," she said. [[strikethrough]] and nw the richness of their few moments came upon her. [[/strikethrough]] "She thinks I got up for nothing, Frank," Harry said, as he closed the door. They waved goodbye; and Frank leaned forward; the motor started, and once more the gravel sounded. Anne looked back at Harry. She realized that she hadn't told him all things she had planned to – in case he had gotten up. She had planned, in those inbetween moments of waking and sleeping, to tell him how much he had become to her, what quiet happiness he had given her, how he made more real all the things around her, or rather, how he awakened her to those things which had always been real. She had meant to tell him about the faint, oh, hardly perceptable ache and