It Was Late At Night It Was Cold
Before sailing, on a day in late December, Roark went to take a last look at the site of Cortlandt. He switched off his phone at 8:45 that night. I longed to be his; I panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement. Meanwhile, the parents – perhaps a little busy at work, running late, running errands – want a little slack to pick the kids up late. It also realizes that the time for wagering on reform in Syria has passed,… Read More »