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On Christmas Eve she and Mag gave a party. Holly asked me to come early and help trim the tree. I'm still not sure how they maneuvered that tree into the apartment. The top branches were crushed against the ceiling, the lower ones spread wall-to-wall; altogether it was not unlike the yuletide giant we see in Rockefeller Plaza. Moreover, it would have taken a Rockefeller to decorate it, for it soaked up baubles and tinsel like melting snow. Holly suggested she run out to Woolworth's and steal some balloons; she did: and they turned the tree into a fairly good show. We made a toast to our work, and Holly said: "Look in the bedroom. There's a present for you."
I had one for her, too: a small package in my pocket that felt even smaller when I saw, square on the bed and wrapped with a red ribbon, the beautiful bird cage.
"But, Holly! It's dreadful!"
"I couldn't agree more; but I thought you wanted it."
"The money! Three hundred and fifty dollars!"
She shrugged. "A few extra trips to the powder room. Promise me, though. Promise you'll never put a living thing in it."
I started to kiss her, but she held out her hand.
"Gimme," she said, tapping the bulge in my pocket.
"I'm afraid it isn't much," and it wasn't; a St. Christopher's medal. But at least it came from Tiffany's.


from Breakfast at Tiffany's; by Truman Capote.