Like a bell ringing under water, muffled but clear, a tiny voice was shouting: "You bladder-headed pillpusher! You bedside vacuum! You fifth-rate tree surgeon! You inflated—" A pause. "Is that you, Connington? Get off the line; I haven't finished with Dr. Bedpan yet."
Moira smiled, like a Buddha-shaped bomb.
"Well?" she said.
e've got to think," Len kept saying over and over.
"You've got to think." Moira was combing her hair, snapping the comb smartly at the end of each stroke. "I've had plenty of time to think, ever since it happened. When you catch up—"
Len flung his tie at the carved wooden pineapple on the corner of the footboard. "Moy, be reasonable. The chances against the kid kicking three times in any one-minute period are only about one in a hundred. The chances against anything like—"
Moira grunted and stiffened for a moment. Then she cocked her head to one side with a listening expression ... a new mannerism of hers that was beginning to send intangible snakes crawling up Len's spine.
"What now?" he asked sharply.