The next thing he knew, lights exploded before his right eye. He had not even seen her hand come up, or he would have ducked. He saw it as he stepped back, however. Despite a certain feminine delicacy, the hand clenched into a very capable little fist.
Beryl took one quick stride into the library.
"I don't like to keep hinting around," she said, "but maybe that will play itself back in your little mind."
She slammed the door three inches from his nose. Westervelt raised a hand to open it, then changed his mind and felt gingerly of his eye. It hurt, but with a sort of surrounding numbness.
Realizing that he could see after all, he looked up and down the corridor guiltily. It seemed very quiet.
Right square in the peeper! he thought ruefully. She couldn't have aimed that well: it must have been a lucky shot. I ought to go in there and belt her!
It was not something he really wanted to do. He could not foresee any pleasure or satisfaction in carrying matters to the extent of open war.
You lost again, Willie, he argued. You might as well take it like a man. She got annoyed at something you said, like as not, and it was too late when you began.
He prodded gently at his eye again, and decided that the numb sensation was being caused by the tightening of skin over a growing mouse.
He set off up the corridor, passed the main door with his face averted, and hurried down to the washroom before someone should come along.