But if Miss Go lightly remained unconscious of my existence, except as a doorbell convenience, I became, through the summer, rather an authority on hers. I discovered, from observing the trash-basket outside her door, that her regular reading consisted of tabloids and travel folders and astrological charts; that she smoked an esoteric cigarette called Picayune's; survived on cottage cheese and Melba Toast; that her varicolored hair was somewhat self-induced. The same source made it evident that she received V-letters by the bale. They were torn into strips like bookmarks. I used occasionally to pluck myself a bookmark in passing. Remember and miss you and rain, and please write and damn and goddamn were the words that recurred most often on these slips; those, and lonesome and love.

Breakfast at Tiffany's