"I'm staying here--on the sixteenth floor. For a few days."
"I am, too."
"You got mad at Mr. Prentiss," I said then, "and fled from your
sprawling mansion out in the golden West to the sidewalks of New
York--familiar to you in your girlhood. Your problem was not 'other
women'--so what was it? Neglect? Brutality? Obsession? Bestiality?
Stamp collecting? What?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
Just then, Fred came by. He's a waiter I know pretty well. "Look,
Fred," I said, "I've made her cry. Bring another brandy."