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Show 135 shrinking back into the line, back out of sight. Although she could still see him, now paused at the ticket taker. Her heart was pounding, Roger's voice dull in her ears-was he saying something to her? No. Was this the real reason, the underlying reason, she had chosen to come here tonight: to see something of the world in which Steve moved? To give added substance to her dreams? To test them against the reality of the world? But she had not expected to see him! How could this be? He was supposed to work tonight, she suddenly remembered. She looked more closely at the figure, who was now passing through the entrance doors. He turned then toward the concession counter, she caught a clear glimpse of him-it wasn't Steve, after all. The hair was the same all right, but this young man had a moustache; from the side like this, he really didn't look like Steve at all. And suddenly she realized that she was disappointed. Roger nudged her elbow: "Who is the man," he asked, "who wrote this?" She turned to them: Roger and the young man-his eyes large, fishlike in his glasses-and his date were looking at her. "Oh-Truman Capote. He wrote the original story anyway." "She's got a mind for things like that," Roger said to the couple. But she had already turned back away, to the figure with the blond hair at the concession counter. Yes, he certainly did look like Steve from the rear. And yes, she realized with a pang, she wished that it was, indeed, him. That he would be sitting somewhere in the dark crowd during the picture. That she would sense his presence there, among all those people, in the darkness. She nursed her disappointment, small |