crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic.
“He always gets me sore,” Cohn said. “I can’t stand him.”
“I like him,” I said. “I’m fond of him. You don’t want to get sore at him.”
“I know it,” Cohn said. “He just gets on my nerves.”
“Write this afternoon?”
“No. I couldn’t get it going. It’s harder to do than my first book. I’m having a hard time handling it.”
The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now