10
It didn't seem possible to work.
For half an hour I fussed around--trying to feel cooler--looking at my
throat in the living room mirror and then the mirror on the medicine
chest in the bathroom--hunting for a sunless spot in the forest-green
sitting room--shunting the bridge table about.
I condensed the opening of Part Six in my mind, then tapped out the
result on the portable. I thought Durfree would like it. Editors are
fond--overfond of brevity. I took a shower and tried to write wet, but
it ran down me, and my tail itched on the turkish towel. Finally, I got
cutting again.
Paul showed up around four--when I had about ten pages--an hour--left
to go.
He looked like an adolescent registering despair in an amateur play.
"Nothing," he said, and he sat down listlessly in an over-stuffed easy
chair that was covered with chintz in full leaf. He didn't bother even
to loosen his tie.