Breakfast at Tiffany's, by Truman Capote (@RandomHouseCa) #seenreadingTO

Northbound, Pape and Danforth

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with long curly brown hair, wearing glasses, red jacket, and sun-faded pink and white backpack.

Breakfast at Tiffany's, by Truman Capote (Knopf Doubleday)

Page 47:

She sighed and picked up her knitting. "I must be madly in love. You saw us together. Do you think I'm madly in love?"

"Well. Does he bite?"

Mag dropped a stitch. "Bite?"

"You. In bed."

"Why, no. Should he?" Then she added, censoriously: "But he does laugh."

"Good. That's the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them, they're all pant and puff."

The skin has never been broken, but when her lover comes she buries her snout into her shoulder, sniffing her hair for evidence of new secretions, recognizing her own scent before relaxing into a sleepy trance. Her eye lids flutter, a content growl resting at the back of her throat before curling into herself for a short nap. When she awakes minutes later it's with a playful alertness. Now they can go outside?

Free for All Friday: In Cold Blood, Truman Capote (Vintage)

(Originally published January 30th, 2008)

Caucasian woman, 70s, with damp curly hair, wearing a grey sweatshirt bearing the image of a stained glass window. Two umbrellas rest between her knees, one for her, one for her grandson who sits beside her, nose buried in a Game Boy Micro.

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote (Vintage)

Page 15:

Perry folded the map. He paid for the root beer and stood up. Sitting, he had seemed a more than normal-sized man, a powerful man, with the shoulders, the arms, the thick, crouching torso of a weight lifter — weight lifting was, in fact, his hobby. But some sections of him were not in proportion to others. His tiny feet, encased in short black boots with steel buckles, would have neatly fitted into a delicate lady’s dancing slippers; when he stood up, he was no taller than a twelve-year-old child, and suddenly looked, strutting on stunted legs that seemed grotesquely inadequate to the grown-up bulk they supported, not like a well-built truck driver but like a retired jockey, overblown and muscle-bound.

The boy wasn’t getting into trouble anymore. That was good. And Mum was getting help, keeping straight, coming by each Sunday for dinner and a few shows before heading home. She had his room ready but knew it would take more than a couple of meetings to convince him she’d know when it was time to stop, to cool off and walk away. Yeah, he was in good hands with Grams, those soft hands that first dared to drain the bottle.