After dark on Saturday night one could stand on the first tee of the golf-course and see the country-club windows as a yellow expanse over a very black and wavy ocean. The waves of this ocean, so to speak, were the heads of many curious caddies, a few of the more ingenious chauffeurs, the golf professional’s deaf sister–and there were usually several stray, diffident waves who might have rolled inside had they so desired. This was the gallery.
Bernice Bobs Her Hair by F. Scott Fitzgerald
03 Monday Jun 2013
Posted Literature
in