bundle themselves in overcoats, whistle a few dejected notes and fortify themselves with scotch, thinking that romantic here, it’s but glad only once a year. it’s [101] 31/12 By noon, the getting packed. harbour’s Farm Cove is filled with tilting masts; from shore to shore, a cataract of colour flows. The warning blasts of signal flare anoint the dusk as drinkers drink and buskers busk. The first explosions fill the night with fiery blooms of coloured light, soon put to shame by each successive barrage of blue and rush of red. But Arthur raise his head, doesn’t finding the water more impressive: its blood, its green and purple dyes; it shifts and burns before his eyes. [102] 1/1 At twelve the Bridge explodes o’clock, and floods of fiery colour douse the faces crowding parks and roads. at the Opera House. Natasha’s She holds her crown and waves her sceptre, the decorations that have swept her into this dazzling New ball. Year’s The other guests are drunk, and maul her body with their clumsy grabs more seriously than before until she take any more, can’t propelling slaps and elbow-jabs at legislators, actors, dames— and even her reporter, James. [103] 2/1 woken early in the morning; She’s the telephone arrests her slumber. She staggers up and answers, yawning. you get my “It’s James.” “How did number?” called to give you some “I advice.” want—” Just be nice. “I don’t “Shut up. not polite, That’s all.” “Get lost.” “That’s and nor were you the other night. I made you everything you are, and I can easily undo you with one more can sue you story.” “I
bundle themselves in overcoats, whistle a few dejected notes and fortify themselves with scotch, thinking that it’s romantic here, but glad it’s only once a year. [101] 31/12 By noon, the harbour’s getting packed. Farm Cove is filled with tilting masts; from shore to shore, a cataract of colour flows. The warning blasts of signal flare anoint the dusk as drinkers drink and buskers busk. The first explosions fill the night with fiery blooms of coloured light, soon put to shame by each successive barrage of blue and rush of red. But Arthur doesn’t raise his head, finding the water more impressive: its blood, its green and purple dyes; it shifts and burns before his eyes. [102] 1/1 At twelve o’clock, the Bridge explodes and floods of fiery colour douse the faces crowding parks and roads. Natasha’s at the Opera House. She holds her crown and waves her sceptre, the decorations that have swept her into this dazzling New Year’s ball. The other guests are drunk, and maul her body with their clumsy grabs more seriously than before until she can’t take any more, propelling slaps and elbow-jabs at legislators, actors, dames— and even her reporter, James. [103] 2/1 She’s woken early in the morning; the telephone arrests her slumber. She staggers up and answers, yawning. “It’s James.” “How did you get my number?” “I called to give you some advice.” “I don’t want—” “Shut up. Just be nice. That’s all.” “Get lost.” “That’s not polite, and nor were you the other night. I made you everything you are, and I can easily undo you with one more story.” “I can sue you
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