AMY HuNT ALWAYS associated the long cold winter of I936<br >with her passion for Herman Fidler. She saw herself in the big<br >bay window of the living room of Cousin Dolly s apartment on<br >East 8oth Street in Manhattan， looking down on the mottled<br >black and white of the slushy snow. People hurried east and<br >west， pushing against the cutting wind， scarfs muffling their<br >faces， heads down in charging posture. The dark oblongs of car<br >roofs moved slowly down the street， turning uncertainly on the<br > skiddy corner like blocks pushed by a huge invisible infant.<br > Behind her was a fire in the grate under a Whistler etching of<br > the Grand Canal， a bright crackling fire before which Cousin<br > Dolly was reading a volume of Emily Dickinson.<br > "What are you looking at， Amy?"<br >People."<br > Menagerie to me， My Neighbor be--<br >negatively，<br >Cousin Doll3<br >and Naomi won t be coming now. The<br >weather s much too mean<br ><br >
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