{"id":"01KG6FHT9QDWZ85ZJ500T0C104","cid":"bafkreievkakpwysvijjvyil6gq4lp6aubb342uhrjv4vxy2ajthbwpoujy","type":"file","properties":{"cid":"bafkreifv2elmsod66t5ijl2ue3m5tyswtbmzjrfakh5yhs2fb6pskx2t2e","content_type":"image/jpeg","filename":"Rye_page_0037.jpg","height":2400,"key":"pdf-page-1769744163149-o9xgwh2uglh","label":"Rye_page_0037.jpg","page_number":37,"pdf_type":"born_digital","size":829285,"text":"her ears. She has nice, pretty little ears. In the wintertime, it's pretty long, though.\nSometimes my mother braids it and sometimes she doesn't. It's really nice, though. She's\nonly ten. She's quite skinny, like me, but nice skinny. Roller-skate skinny. I watched her\nonce from the window when she was crossing over Fifth Avenue to go to the park, and\nthat's what she is, roller-skate skinny. You'd like her. I mean if you tell old Phoebe\nsomething, she knows exactly what the hell you're talking about. I mean you can even\ntake her anywhere with you. If you take her to a lousy movie, for instance, she knows it's\na lousy movie. If you take her to a pretty good movie, she knows it's a pretty good movie.\nD.B. and I took her to see this French movie, The Baker's Wife, with Raimu in it. It killed\nher. Her favorite is The 39 Steps, though, with Robert Donat. She knows the whole\ngoddam movie by heart, because I've taken her to see it about ten times. When old Donat\ncomes up to this Scotch farmhouse, for instance, when he's running away from the cops\nand all, Phoebe'll say right out loud in the movie--right when the Scotch guy in the\npicture says it--\"Can you eat the herring?\" She knows all the talk by heart. And when this\nprofessor in the picture, that's really a German spy, sticks up his little finger with part of\nthe middle joint missing, to show Robert Donat, old Phoebe beats him to it--she holds up\nher little finger at me in the dark, right in front of my face. She's all right. You'd like her.\nThe only trouble is, she's a little too affectionate sometimes. She's very emotional, for a\nchild. She really is. Something else she does, she writes books all the time. Only, she\ndoesn't finish them. They're all about some kid named Hazel Weatherfield--only old\nPhoebe spells it \"Hazle.\" Old Hazle Weatherfield is a girl detective. She's supposed to be\nan orphan, but her old man keeps showing up. Her old man's always a \"tall attractive\ngentleman about 20 years of age.\" That kills me. Old Phoebe. I swear to God you'd like\nher. She was smart even when she was a very tiny little kid. When she was a very tiny\nlittle kid, I and Allie used to take her to the park with us, especially on Sundays. Allie had\nthis sailboat he used to like to fool around with on Sundays, and we used to take old\nPhoebe with us. She'd wear white gloves and walk right between us, like a lady and all.\nAnd when Allie and I were having some conversation about things in general, old\nPhoebe'd be listening. Sometimes you'd forget she was around, because she was such a\nlittle kid, but she'd let you know. She'd interrupt you all the time. She'd give Allie or I a\npush or something, and say, \"Who? Who said that? Bobby or the lady?\" And we'd tell her\nwho said it, and she'd say, \"Oh,\" and go right on listening and all. She killed Allie, too. I\nmean he liked her, too. She's ten now, and not such a tiny little kid any more, but she still\nkills everybody--everybody with any sense, anyway.\nAnyway, she was somebody you always felt like talking to on the phone. But I\nwas too afraid my parents would answer, and then they'd find out I was in New York and\nkicked out of Pencey and all. So I just finished putting on my shirt. Then I got all ready\nand went down in the elevator to the lobby to see what was going on.\nExcept for a few pimpy-looking guys, and a few whory-looking blondes, the\nlobby was pretty empty. But you could hear the band playing in the Lavender Room, and\nso I went in there. It wasn't very crowded, but they gave me a lousy table anyway--way in\nthe back. I should've waved a buck under the head-waiter's nose. In New York, boy,\nmoney really talks--I'm not kidding.\nThe band was putrid. Buddy Singer. Very brassy, but not good brassy--corny\nbrassy. Also, there were very few people around my age in the place. In fact, nobody was\naround my age. They were mostly old, show-offy-looking guys with their dates. 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