She padded off, leaving Sol holding the towel. He patted his face, and then scrubbed the wet tangle of brown hair. Carefully, he stepped off the carpet and onto the stone floor in front of the fireplace. He removed his drenched coat and suit jacket, and squeezed water out over the ashes.
He stripped down to his underwear, wondering about next morning's possible embarrassment, and decided to use the damp bath towel as a blanket. The sofa was downy and comfortable. He curled up under the towel, shivered once, and closed his eyes.
He was tired and very sleepy, and his customary nightly review was limited to a few detached thoughts about the wedding he was supposed to attend in Salinas that weekend ... the hoodlum who had responded to his good-nature by dumping him out of his own car ... the slogging walk to the village ... the little round woman who was hurrying off, like the White Rabbit, to some mysterious appointment on the upper floor ...
Then he went to sleep.
A voice awoke him, shrill and questioning.
"Are you nakkid?"
His eyes flew open, and he pulled the towel protectively around his body and glared at the little girl with the rust-red pigtails.
"Huh, mister?" she said, pushing a finger against her freckled nose. "Are you?"
"No," he said angrily. "I'm not naked. Will you please go away?"