It didn't seem possible to work.
For half an hour I fussed around—trying to feel cooler—looking at my throat in the living room mirror and then the mirror on the medicine chest in the bathroom—hunting for a sunless spot in the forest-green sitting room—shunting the bridge table about.
I condensed the opening of Part Six in my mind, then tapped out the result on the portable. I thought Durfree would like it. Editors are fond—overfond of brevity. I took a shower and tried to write wet, but it ran down me, and my tail itched on the turkish towel. Finally, I got cutting again.
Paul showed up around four—when I had about ten pages—an hour—left to go.
He looked like an adolescent registering despair in an amateur play.
"Nothing," he said, and he sat down listlessly in an over-stuffed easy chair that was covered with chintz in full leaf. He didn't bother even to loosen his tie.
I looked at him and compassion melted out of me.
"Eaten?"
He nodded. "Had to. Have to keep going."