I Married A Dead Man

I Married A Dead Man by Cornell Woolrich Page B

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Authors: Cornell Woolrich
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on my way back just now. Had to go over and see a man. And you?"
                    "I came down to get Mother some imported English yarn she had waiting for her at Bloom's. Before they send it out, I can be there and back with it."
                    "I'll walk with you," he offered. "Good excuse to loaf. As far as the next corner anyhow."
                    "That's where I'm taking my bus anyway," she told him.
                    They turned and resumed their course, but at the snail's pace she had been maintaining by herself before now.
                    He crinkled his nose and squinted upward appreciatively. "It does a fellow good to get out in the sun once in awhile."
                    "Poor abused man. I'd like to have a penny for every time you're out of that office during hours."
                    He chuckled unabashedly. "Can I help it if Dad sends me? Of course, I always happen to get right in front of him when he's looking around for someone to do the legwork."
                    They stopped.
                    "Those're nice," she said appraisingly.
                    "Yes," he agreed. "But what are they?"
                    "You know darned well they're hats. Don't try to be so superior."
                    They went on, stopped again.
                    "Is this what they call window-shopping?"
                    "This is what they call window-shopping. As if you didn't know."
                    "It's fun. You don't get anywhere. But you see a lot."
                    "You may like it now, because it's a novelty. Wait 'll you're married and get a lot of it. You won't like it then."
                    The next window-display was an offering of fountain pens, a narrow little show-case not more than two or three yards in width.
                    She didn't offer to stop there. It was now he who did, halting her with him as a result.
                    "Wait a minute. That reminds me. I need a new pen. Will you come in with me a minute and help me pick one out?"
                    "I ought to be getting back," she said halfheartedly.
                    "It'll only take a minute. I'm a quick buyer."
                    "I don't know anything about pens," she demurred.
                    "I don't myself. That's just it. Two heads are better than one." He'd taken her lightly by the arm by now, to try to induce her. "Ah, come on. I'm the sort they sell anything to when I'm alone."
                    "I don't believe a word of it. You just want company," she laughed, but she went inside with him nevertheless.
                    He offered her a chair facing the counter. A case of pens was brought out and opened. They were discussed between him and the salesman, she taking no active part. Several were uncapped, filled at a waiting bottle of ink at hand on the counter, and tried out on a pad of scratch-paper, also at hand for that purpose.
                    She looked on, trying to show an interest she did not really feel.
                    Suddenly he said to her, "How do you like the way this writes?" and thrust one of them between her fingers and the block of paper under her hand, before she quite knew what had happened.
                    Incautiously, her mind on the proportions and weight of the barrel in her grasp, her attention fixed on what sort of a track the nib would leave, whether a broad bold one or a thin wiry one, she put it to the pad. Suddenly "Helen" stood there on the topmost leaf, almost as if produced by automatic writing. Or rather, in the fullest sense of the word, it was just that. She checked herself just in time to prevent the second

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