She was laughing her lovely trill, something that raises goose lumps of pleasure on my soul.

“Hurry home, darling,” she said. “Hurry home.”

And how’s that for a man to have! When I hung up, I stood by the phone all weak and leaky and happy if there is such a condition. I tried to think how it had been before Mary, and I couldn't remember, or how it would be without her, and I could not imagine it except that it would be a condition bordered in black. I guess everyone at some time or other writes his epitaph.