Who was reading: A Renoir-faced young woman with red hair slipping in strands and curtains out of an arrangement that resembled a bun, but not closely.
Moste Peculiarly: She wore regular gloves, rather than the fingerless variety favored by hobos.
By the time she finishes the book… I wouldn’t be surprised if those fingers find themselves sliced off and lying in a waste-basket along with one or two of society’s strictures.
Did anyone else… fantasize about cutting all ties and starting a new life riding the rails after they read this book? It was my 14-year-old dream that never came true. The first of many disappointments [insert sad—but wistful—face].
Luckily, I was able to make up for said disappointment by going all Japhy Ryder and getting naked on a mountain.
What about you, dear reader? How do you compensate for your broken dreams?