The
hotel’s front lawn bordered a cedar grove sheltering a small grotto and pond,
the surface of which latter thickened tonight into an ice sequestering the
irregular spread of coins below upon its bed.
Though
varied in both nationality and denomination, they had in their throwing become
one universal currency of the wish for good luck, amongst and of which no less
a part the discrepant Moosehead bottlecaps buckled in their summer detachment,
and the more recent cluster of chocolate coin foils, badly creased but each
still visibly embossed with the golden profile of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
