He looked at the world of his parlor with a sidereal eye, squinting, as though   something had hooked a plummet from the socket those afternoons our mother   would take us to Wilkins’, seating us on the whirl-able counter-stools—the curved   soda fountains like chapel arches, the mirrors lifted unto the high tin ceilings, […]

This content is for subscribers only. Please log in below, or sign up for a subscription here.