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[dev-serveez] Re [1]:

From: Doris Morris
Subject: [dev-serveez] Re [1]:
Date: Thu, 11 Jan 2007 08:58:29 +0200
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Laura D. No shampoo, no Avon samples. "And that's where your car is now, Paul — somewhere between Route 9 and the Grider Wildlife Preserve, somewhere in the woods. It had fallen in some way that was keeping the lock's tongue from retracting completely. The clipping from the January 14th Camera showed her blank, stonelike face rendered in newsprint dots below a headline which read: NEW HEAD MATERNITY WARD NURSE NAMED. Paul wondered uneasily if perhaps the poor animal's udder had burst, resulting in death by exsanguination. "She tossed the open bottle of Betadine over her shoulder, her face blank and empty and yet so unarguably solid; she slid her right hand down the handle of the axe alnost to the steel head.You were still having your nap. There was no breakfast. ""Yes,»she said, smiling. The white moustache covered most of it but not quite all. Maybe she killed the Krenmitz kids because they "were brats.

He saw her sitting in here and scooping ice-cream into her mouth, or maybe handfuls of half-congealed chicken gravy with a Pepsi chaser, simply eating and drinking in a deep depressed daze. The keys clittered, and then another chunk of metal fell out on the board which served as his desk. Chief M'Chibi "Beautiful One»was the Keeper of the Fire, and inside his hut were better than a hundred torches, the head of each coated with a thick, gummy resin. And in Colorado, most of the attention and concern were focused on Trooper Duane Kushner — as he supposed these two visitors proved. What would she think, he wondered, of that man as he looked now, forty pounds lighter and ten years older, his legs a pair of crooked useless horrors? He wore an old smoking jacket with the belt askew, an open-throated white shirt, and a pair of rough serge pants that would have looked more at home upon the legs of a itinerant gardener than upon those of the richest man in Little Dunthorpe. The book-time the characters spend living in the story and the real time the novelist spends writing it all down. Then his need and will to live — and there was still quite a lot of each in him — rose up and clamored the momentary weakness away. Paul settled hands he could barely feel on the wheels and rolled the chair toward the hallway, sparing one glance at the ceramic penguin on its block of ice. She had the heightened awareness of the deep neurotic, and might have had the position of each box carefully memorized. He supposed he should count himself lucky that she hadn't re-broken his legs with a baseball bat or given him a battery-acid manicure or something similar to indicate her displeasure with the way he had begun her book — such critical responses were always possible, given Annie's unique view of the world. He backed carefully away from the phone, and when he gained the room's one reasonably clear area, he began the laborious job of turning the wheelchair around, careful not to bump the occasional table as he did so. He hit the keys harder than necessary, so she would be sure to hear he was typing something, at least. Nearly one whole arm of her cardigan sweater was soaked with a half-dried substance that smelled like gravy. He looked to Paul like a man trying very hard to scratch that one itch you can never quite reach. If people in town really feel about you the way you say they do, Annie — "They hate me! But Maugham first seduced him and then made him a child again, and that was wonderful. I was driving to the West Coast to celebrate my liberation from a state of whoredom. That poor woman who scraped the ends of her fingers off — " She shook her head and repeated: "It's not, like any of the other Misery books. She was mounting a set of stone steps in the company of a husky policewoman, her face dull, devoid of _expression_. Nor could he pull a cutie like opening the capsules and mixing the powder into some pre-softened ice-cream. He stowed the can of Fast-Lite in the space and pushed the board back into place.

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