Soft lips brushed the back of my neck and she said something.
"That's fine," I said.
"Sam!"
I heard that, all right. I looked up from the typewriter. "Hey, that's a nice nightgown!"
"I said I think I'm getting a cold."
"Well—with a nightgown like that...."
"Silly!" Her smile would have corrupted a bishop. "You coming to bed? It's almost midnight."
"Soon's I finish writing this chapter. Best thing I've ever done."
"More Indians?"
I reached for a cigarette. "Sure, more Indians. What else would one of the country's leading authorities on the original Americans be writing about? I hate to keep harping on the same subject, my sweet, but the dough from my last book bought you that mink stole you keep dangling in front of your girl friends."