any very poignant memories of hearthstone and holly, bulging stockings and Yuletide cheer. And vet, the vacuum where such memories ought to be--the sense of an a priori right to such experiences, never satisfied--ached, apparently, like an amputated limb for this one night in the year in everybody. Even young Foster, who had supposed himself immune, felt it.
He was about to take to flight, when he saw Jimmy Wallace standing in the doorway. He was loaded to the arm-pits with a miscellaneous assortment of packages, and as his gaze roved about the room you could see a faint smile on his lips. The moment he caught Foster's eye, he came over to his table and sat down.
Jimmy was a dramatic critic, and the packages now piled in a chair represented a stream of Christmas presents that had been coming into his office all the afternoon.
He had just dropped in, on his way to the elevated, to have a glass of beer and accumulate sufficient muscular energy to carry his presents the rest of the