Strangled Prose
““Where do I get this autographed, Claire? I think I’d like to buy it,” he said apologetically. It was his normal raspy voice, but his eyes were as opaque as jelly beans. He was the only person present who had missed Maggie’s performance, which indicated the extensiveness of his befogged condition. The man was an ambulatory vegetable.
“It’s hardly your genre!” I snapped. “Go drink a big glass of champagne and reconsider.” I glared until he shuffled away, then swung back to Douglas. “There’d better be a good explanation for this.”
“I’m sure there is. Mildred would never do anything to hurt you; she thinks the world of you. Why, just this morning she was telling me how much she admires—”
“Can it, Douglas.” I was not in the mood for hearing how divine I was, especially when half of the Farber faculty was poring over the lesser known but nevertheless fascinating details of Carlton’s death. I anticipated a titter of amusement at any moment.
Maggie muscled me aside.
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