Boy Scrimshaw, on the other hand, figured he seen it in my books.
“You iss writer!” he said in his of-corze voice, fingering one of the half a dozen tomes and still smiling in his who-hid-the-whiskey slyness while meanwhile my fickle Obie clattered his ring of measuring spoons in joyous confirmation of his new-found Polack friend.
I screwed my eyes into focus and saw that Scrimshaw held the collection of Nabokov-Wilson letters, my sentimentally inscribed but nonetheless remaindered Christmas gift from my brother some years back.