Hollywood Boulevard. Janyce Stefan-Cole
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"I don't know what you mean." I felt heavy and tired and sank back into my chair.
"If you have something to give the world, it is your duty, your God- given duty, to take that something— talent— and make it live, push it to the limit, and bring it home." As he spoke his left hand tapped each word out on the table.
"Don't, Harry. This isn't necessary."
"Not necessary?" That fierceness I'd sensed when I'd arrived was piercing now, like a knife blade in the sun, a hawk about to dive at its prey. "Then give me a reason; tell me what you would not tell me before."
I shook my head slowly.
"WHY DID YOU QUIT?" he thundered, banging his hand on the table.
I flinched. The housekeeper came running into the dining room. "Mr. Machin! Mr. Machin? You mustn't upset yourself." She gave me a dirty look.
Harry waved her away. He stood up, hands grabbing the edge of the table. To me he said— his eyes boring into my smallest, most curled- up corner— almost in a whisper: "Why?"
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