The Dead Season: -I- -II- -III- (IV)
IV
THE NEXT DAY, Father was limping slightly on one leg. His face beamed. That very morning he had discovered the apt, dazzling phrase for his letter, over which he had struggled in vain for so many days and nights. We never saw Blackbeard again. He had left at dawn with his trunk and his bundles, with no goodbyes. That was the last night of the dead season. Counting from that summer night, seven long years of prosperity began for our shop.