Mrs. Hemingway mentioned she would have the same, and I ordered a cup of coffee. He waited for the drinks with impatience, holding on to the bar with both arms and humming an unrecognizable tune. Mrs. Hemingway mentioned she hoped it wouldn’t be darkish by the time they obtained to New York. Hemingway stated it wouldn’t make any difference to him, as a end result of New York was a rough town, a phony town, a city that was the identical in the dark as it was within the gentle, and he was not precisely overjoyed to be going there anyway. “Where I like it’s out West in Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho, and I like Cuba and Paris and around Venice,” he said. “Westport provides me the horrors.” Mrs. Hemingway lit a cigarette and handed me the pack.
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