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Lunching with our Ida Zeitlin, Bergman said she and Peter were mod for winter sports loved swimming together; she always talks Eng. to him, tho he answers in Swedish. Never uses perfume, sleeps in plainest Irish linen gowns, keeps hair softly permonented.
Ingrid's dad gave her stuffed cat once when she was very, very good. She's never let it out of sight since.
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everything that had been real turned into husks. Like the poet who wrote those unforgettable lines, Ingrid was a stranger, afraid in a world she never made.
Little by little she learned to look desolation in the face, to adjust herself to that strange new world. She and Aunt Ellen moved to another apartment. Father was gone. There was nothing left but acting. Turning back to her plays and poems, she found that they still had power to absorb her and, by so much, to ease the clamor of her grief. Straight from school she rushed to their solace, as one might rush into protecting arms. Aunt Ellen wept, pleaded with her to give it up.
"The stage," cried Aunt Ellen, "is not for respectable girls. It's a dreadful, a dangerous life. Put your books away, child. Stop this eternal reading." You might as well have asked the wind to stop blowing..
Six months later Aunt Ellen died in the night of a heart attack. Ingrid went to live with her father's brother and his wife and the five young cousins.
The cousins regarded her as an oddity. "Hello," said their eyes, "here's something a little old-fashioned." They brimmed with good will at first, because she was a guest and bereaved. But their animal spirits presently took the upper hand. As (Continued on page 86)
Ingrid budgets points and vitamins with cook each morning, markets herself when she can sneak the time, can't resist corn on the cob.
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