Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. ’ She sniffed and swallowed. She was, she guessed, close to the library. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. “John, that is what you say now. There is a new life, different from the old life of dependence, possible. . She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar.
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