Sometimes Cordelia wished that she could keep her eyes tight closed for the entire journey. And yet, as her muscles tensed for the thousandth time, she knew it was impossible.
“That truck ahead!”
Cordelia’s father didn’t turn his head back toward the road; his mind was pursuing some Shakespearian dream out beyond the rows of autumnal lindens and the rolling meadows of the Polish countryside.
“Ah, Cordelia,” he said expansively, in his deep, modulated voice, his unidentifiable accent, “the sun is going down and ‘kissing with golden face the meadows green,'”
“Yes, but that truck! That truck ahead!” Cordelia’s voice rose to a modified shriek.
“Hmm, what? Oh.” …
Cordelia’s father does sound like a bit of a dreamer, doesn’t he? Something which Cordelia is obviously used to, but still feels uncomfortable with and nervous about. It sounds like an accident waiting to happen … I wonder if it does?
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