Nothing else was put in their place, and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. Another thing: she dated John Diedermayer once and she dumped him, she’s been psychotic over him ever since. His friendship seemed a thing worth having. I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction.
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