Chapter Eighteen
I caught up on sleep for the biggest part of the afternoon. About six o’clock I tapped on the communicating door to Roberta’s room.
“Yes,” she called, “what is it?”
I opened the door a crack. “Getting hungry?”
“Come on in.” She had a sheet pulled up over her. From the clothes on the chair, it looked as though the sheet was about all she had on.
She grinned, said, “This is my negligee. Donald, I’ve simply got to get some clothes. I’ve been using a purse as a suitcase and overnight bag until I feel like something the cat dragged in. The drugstore downstairs managed to give me enough creams, comb, brushes, and toilet articles, but no negligee.”
I said, “I could use some clean clothes, but it’s Sunday and the stores are closed.”
“You live here, don’t you? You must have a room with a lot of things in it.”
“I have.”
“Why don’t you go get them?”