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Page 5 text:
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utside it was cold, very cold. The snow, and there was a lot of it, that had begun to melt that afternoon had turned into ice. One could see the tread marks left by God knows how many Weejuns preserved, like fossils, along the walks of the Lawn. The sky was relatively clear, clear and dark, with a few Visible stars hanging like the lights of ships at anchor in a bay.
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Page 6 text:
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jfznside it was warm. At least, inside of Phelps Lambertls room on the West Lawn. He had built a Hre not too long ago, and it lilled the occupants of the room with the hot and alive sense of security that comes on like the sweet breath of a girl on a summerls day. Phelps came from the window sill with a freshly opened can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, the only brand of beer or anything else that he would drink, and With the luxurious smile of relaxation, sank his two hundred-twenty pounds of pure flesh, unmarred by the presence of muscle, into the womb of the leather armchair. Whenever he sat in that chair it sounded like the air brakes on a Trailways bus. Good old Phelps, who had come to the Uni- versity from Rome, Georgia, and whose droopy eyes, eyes that always threatened to fall right out of their sockets, seemed to express man,s absolute indifference throughout the history of the world. It might be said that Phelps was the arche- typal eternal yawn. But others werenit indifferent to him. Not at all. Phelps Lam- bert was also an archetype peculiar to academic communities, the mysterious Sphinx with a can of Pabst for a riddle whose studying consisted of buying the re- quired texts and little more, and whose name somehow always found itself on Dea1fs list. Good old Phelps. Sitting on the bed, staring into the fire, following with his eyes the upward rise of the ashes, ashes like chips of dirty mica, was Martin Vanderslice. He was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans which, he claimed, he hadnit washed in so long that when he whistled in the morning they obediently came out of the closet and to his bed. Equally as faded was his old Explorer Scout green blazer which he were over his reputedly white straight-collared shirt and red tie. Martin was a man of conviction, as was evidenced by the fact that he continued to wear his tennis sneakers with all the fidelity of a mailman, through rain, snow or sleet. Watching the fire, he wound a lock of his dark brown hair around one Finger and gave a short sardonic laugh directed at one of his silent, private jokes. It is needless to say, but said nonetheless, that he lived on Elliewood Avenue. There he brought all the ethnic qualities that came from a reaction to the native provincialism of his hometown Providence, Rhode Island. Of course, standing alongside the hreplace was Rhett Cleghorne III, a native of F lorence, South Carolina, who indeed would be upset if he knew how late in the narrative he was first mentioned. He stood there silently, seriously contemplating the future of the world and seeking the answer in the whiskey sour he held in his hand. He never seemed to drink from it, but there was always a glass in his hand. His friends would wonder if this venerable graduate history sage, when the time comes for him to teach others, would walk into class and set his virginal whiskey sour on the lectern. In appearance, he looked like a pre-fabricated history student: three-piece grey herringbone suit from Eljoys, wing tips, Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, and horn rimmed glasses. He carried his tall and thin body well and always seemed posed in the tradition of the statues representing the great thinkers of the world. He was, in short, a walking, talking, thinking historical calendar. Bob Fletcher was still thinking about the previous week,s basketball victory over Navy, to which he contributed more than his share. He had come a long way from Pittsburgh, to paraphrase the song. He knew that and was proud of himself, but part of his success could be attributed to the fact that he never turned his pride against others. He was reserved and deceptively slow and easy going, as was discovered time and again by girls from Chapel Hill to Radcliffe. The slow shufHe with which he passed in and out of the columns on the Lawn was merely the outward expression of the young man who was too self-assured to run around beating his head against walls that weren,t really there. He was almost the ideal that every hospital waiting room father hoped would become a reality in his son. Almost compulsively clean, tits next to Godliness, you knowl, he took two
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