"Why do you like to swim?" he demanded.
"You always ask me that." She laughed.
"Perhaps you'd tell me if we had dinner together tonight."
But when, in a moment, he left her he knew that she could never tell
him—she or another. France was a land, England was a people, but
America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to ut-
ter—it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its
great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that
was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.
Oh Fitzgerald, I simply adore you. In all honesty, I am considering dedicating the rest of my academic career to your work. The end. :)
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