In order to write of folks she must touch them, feel them, must know
they lived and breathed as she did. Why couldn't she get at
them,--folks, plain folks, and so was she. A slow fury rose up in her,
and she watched the great events Of the afternoon with resentful eyes.
Even when a man not entered for racing, swung over the railing into the
center field, and scrambled upon the bare back of King Devil, the wild
horse of the plains which had never yielded to man's bridling hand, and
was tossed and dragged and jerked and twisted, until it seemed there
could be no life left in him, yet who finally pulled the horse almost
by brute force into submission, while the spectators went wild, and
Julia screamed, and Carol sank breathless and white into her seat, and
David stood on the bench and yelled until Carol pulled him down,--even
then Connie could not get the feeling. She wanted to write these
people, to put them on paper, and she couldn't, because they were not
people to her, they were just "Good points."
Afterward, when they slowly made their way to the car, and drove home
to the Bijou again, Connie was still silent. She saw David comfortably
settled in the big chair on the sunny corner of the porch, with Carol
beside him and Julia romping on the lawn.
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