Their eyes met, locked, became wistful, and dreamy and beautiful. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.

When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. That's my middle-west - not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow.

They talked aimlessly back and forth, each speaking for the other.