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159 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1974
”I need no one’s excuses,” I snapped. “My conduct is my own responsibility.” I turned and flounced off, hoping he would stop me.


I silently promised myself one thing: Maxine was not going to have him. If I had to tie her up and stuff her in a closet she wasn’t going to have him.

For the past two months I hadn’t been able to do anything without imagining Adam there with me. Every solitary walk, every afternoon spent reading in the study, every waking moment, all were spent with a subconscious desire to be interrupted. And then if by chance I was, I would turn around and be as spiteful and nasty as I could before I ran away.
"Stop!" he commanded, horrified to the tips of his Christian toes.
My one consolation was that Fathimore was allowed to preach only once a month—any more and I would have become an atheist.
"[They] all were ... with her that weekend. It was Adam's idea."
"At the same time?" I laughed. "Now that is indelicate."
It was my firm belief, based on no knowledge whatsoever, that murderers were late risers.
If I had to be raped and murdered by any of those four I'd rather have Adam, but of course, that was hardly much of a recommendation.
We had eight inches of snow that night—a new record. When I awoke the next morning and saw the white hillside I started crying. I am not at all sentimental, but every now and then beauty creeps up on me unexpectedly and lays waste to my emotions.
"... Along with the trusteeship of all that money you have the care of someone my dear father variously called a termagent, a shrew, a feminist, and a creature worse than her mother..."
"Did you hear that?" he demanded of Fathimore, his face mottled with rage. "A feminist! In my house! ..."