"Lorry, darling, you look so sweet in that wrapper with your hair slicked back. You look like somebody I know. Who is it? Oh, of course, the Blessed Damozel, leaning on the bar of Heaven, only it's the bar of the bed."
"Don't be silly, Chrystie. Get up."
"Never till I have your solemn, eternal, sworn-to promise."
"What promise?"
"To give that party."
"You have it—I said I'd do it and I will."
"And get nuggets for it?"
"Yes."
"All right, I'll go."
She sat up, rosy, disheveled, her hair hanging in a tousled mop from its loosened pins. Catching Lorry's hand, she squeezed it, looking up at her like an affectionate, drowsy child.