“No, thanks,” said the girl, and uncrossed her legs. “Mother, this call is costing a for—”
“When I think of how you waited for that boy all through the war—I mean when you think of all those crazy little wives who—”
“Mother,” said the girl, “we’d better hang up. Seymour may come in any minute.”
“Where is he?”
“On the beach.”
“On the beach? By himself? Does he behave himself on the beach?”
“Mother,” said the girl, “you talk about him as though he were a raving maniac—”
“I said nothing of the kind, Muriel.”
“Well, you sound that way. I mean all he does is lie there. He won’t take his bathrobe off.”
“He won’t take his bathrobe off? Why not?”