I Love You, I Love You, I Love You [antikvár]

1 SOUVENIR EVERY time I pass, along the "West Side Highway, a spot just above Forty-Sixth Street, there comes over me the feeling that I experience at the dentist's as I wait for him to get through putting the little drill in his machine, the sorrow of saying good-by, and the sadness of a band playing far away, all rolled into one. It's the stretch where you can look down on the Normandie. I am glad to report that workers are busy righting her. The superstructure is gone and on the side over the de luxe cabins are planks and lampposts. It looks as if a street stretched over the water, over the ship—a strange thing to contemplate, a fantastic scene. I have always given more affection to the Normandie than to any other ship. I loved her for her gaiety, for her color, for that familiarity with all the world that was her passenger list. In her décor she leaned toward excess; there was something of the femme fatale about her. She assumed a seigneur's privilege of frowning on the lesser, fatter, slower, and more solid boats. Like all aristocrats, she had abominable moods. I think she was more female than all the other ships that I have known. I think that's why I loved her so. We traveled on her once under extraordinary