He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things. A neat tale, giving little away. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. “My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. At the same time Sydney and Brendon also vacated their places. So was I, in fact. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. “That’s.
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