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Book, page 332 / 371 like fifty or a hundred as well as I do you." "Oh, damn!" said Donald angrily. "Do I have to keep up this top-crust business all my days?" Linda looked at him with a queer smile on her lips. "Not unless you want to, Donald," she said quietly; "not unless you think you would rather." Donald scraped a fish vigorously. Linda sat watching him. Presently the tense lines around his eyes vanished. A faint red crept up his neck and settled on his left cheek bone. A confused grin slowly widened his naturally wide mouth. "Then it's me for the top crust," he said conclusively. "Then it's me for you," answered Linda in equally as matter-of-fact tones; and rising, she gathered up the fish and carried them to Katy while Donald knelt beside the chilly stream and scoured his face and hands, after which Linda whipped away the scales with an improvised brush of willow twigs. It was such a wonderful day; it was such an unusual and delicious feast. Plump brook trout, fresh from icy water, delicately broiled over searing wood coals, are the finest of food. Through the meal to the point where Donald lay on his back at the far curve of the canyon wall, nibbling a piece of cactus candy, everything had been perfect. Nine months would be a long time to be gone, but Linda would wait for him, and she would write to him. He raised his head on his elbow and called across to her: "Say, Linda, how often will you write to me?" Linda answered promptly: "Every Saturday night. Saturday is our day. I'll tell you what has happened all the week. I'll tell you specially what a darned unprofitable day Saturday is when you're three thousand miles away."
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