costs us at least 400 gallons. don't bother bringing clothes for paris, we'll be lucky to hit the nearest beach in ireland. real lucky.
the admiral is the admiral. he gets to estimate any damn thing he wants. all we have to do is figure out how to fly without petrol. she turns to george with challenging eyes.
don't go blaming the bookseller. he's been all through this with mrs. guest, but she worships the admiral. and it's money that puts planes in the air.
don't blame us, lady. i think somebody's starting to sell books. the reporters are handing her their morning editions. the new york times front page headline: boston girl starts for
the ham's a little tough, commander. but the bacon's swell.
explorer, my ass. byrd couldn't
christ, what time is.
where's the weather report? she goes to his bed. hands him a slip of paper. he blinks, still waking up. reads.
it's not good enough.
we've had better than this and we haven't gone.
you're serious.
have a nice flight.
hold onto something for chrissake! she grabs the leg of the navigation table which has been bolted down. stares out the window, wondering if she'll make it.
well, then. and swoops back on course. amelia's hand squeezes his shoulder. dissolve to.  later. amelia crouched behind bill's seat. fog starting to break up.
eighteen minutes ago. why? she glances over to slim, who is busy unwrapping a sandwich. she can't believe this. he takes a healthy bite.
mr. putnam phoned. he says there's fella coming from london. hilton railey.
he says ya mustn't come ashore til he gets here. no matter what. great. she doesn't like it, but there it is. she waves, so long.
some kind of royalty, is he? she nods.