I have nothing to be ashamed of. But if he gave in to it, if the cops finally returned tomorrow or the day after to find Annie dead in the guest-room and a blubbering ball of protoplasm in the downstairs bathroom, a blubbering ball of protoplasm who had once been a writer named Paul Sheldon, wouldnt that be Annies victory?
Then he smiled a little. "she shrieked again, and his left was gone; he crawled toward the open door on the jetting stumps of his wrists, and incredibly the galleys were still there, the bound galleys Charlie had given him at lunch in Mr Lees, sliding the manila envelope to him across gleaming white napery while Muzak drifted down from overhead speakers. Following the amputation of his thumb there had been a dim period when Pauls greatest single accomplishment, other than working on the novel, had been to keep track of the days. Until he felt the sting of the hypo sliding into his arm and woke to see her face leaning over his, he hadnt the slightest idea she was back.
He guessed she had drunk directly from it, and that her fingers had been covered with gravy or ice-cream when she did it. at least, not all of them.
This other process — TRYING TO HAVE AN IDEA — was nowhere near as exalted or exalting, but it was every bit as mysterious. You were the tough young gunsel looking to make a rep off the tired old turd of a sheriff, right?