She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. Mr. gutenberg. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. Quite right. The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady.
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