Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Never mind. ” “Perhaps you don’t. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. It looked as if it had taken its world for granted and prospered on that assumption—a world in which children were trained to obey their elders and the wills of women over-ruled as a matter of course. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you.
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