“Which one?”
“I don’t know. The one that was in our Psych class, that always—”
“Both of them were in our Psych class.”
“Well. The one with the terrific—”
“Marcia Louise. I ran into her once, too. She talk your ear off?”
“God, yes. But you know what she told me, though? Dr. Whiting’s dead. She said she had a letter from Barbara Hill saying Whiting got cancer last summer and died and all. She only weighed sixty-two pounds. When she died. Isn’t that terrible?”
“No.”
“Eloise, you’re getting hard as nails.”
“Mm. What else’d she say?”
“Oh, she just got back from Europe. Her husband was stationed in Germany or something, and she was with him. They had a forty-seven-room house, she said, just with one other couple, and about ten servants. Her own horse, and the groom they had, used to be Hitler’s own private riding master or something. Oh, and she started to tell me how she almost got raped by a colored soldier. Right on the main floor of Lord & Taylor’s she started to tell me—you know Jackson. She said he was her husband’s chauffeur, and he was driving her to market or something one morning. She said she was so scared she didn’t even—”