Mrs. Pritchard could hear herself talking after she got home.
Mrs. Pritchard could hear herself talking after she got home. “Then we drove through miles and miles of green fields with poppies and lupines, just like a garden. There was a blond girl got on at a funny little place and the men made fools of themselves, even Elliott. I joshed him about it for a week afterward.” She’d write it in a letter. “And I’m pretty sure the poor little painted thing was just as nice and sweet as could be. She said she was a nurse, but I think she was probably an actress—little parts, you know. There are so many of them in Hollywood. Thirty-eight thousand listed. They’ve got a big casting agency. Thirty-eight thousand.” Her head nodded a little. Bernice was sleepy and hungry. “I wonder what adventures we’ll have now,” she thought.
