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new friends immediately sent a waiter to find a cab. Heading back downtown toward her hotel, her bigcity friends were amazed at the turn of events that had changed their Big Apple dinner into a Mississippi “My friends said: ?Now we believe your stories,?” Welty added. And I said: ?Now you know. These are the people that make me write them.?” Sitting on a soda in her room, Welty, a slim figure in a simple gray dress, looked pleased with this explanation. “I don?t make them up,” she said of the characters in her fiction these last 50 or so years. “I don?t have to.”[來源 :學(xué) |科 |網(wǎng) ] Beauticians, bartenders, piano players and people with purple hats, Welty?s people e from afternoons spe nt visiting with old friends, from walks through the streets of her native Jackson,