Cute name for a cat, Paul thought. A pretty young woman was getting out of the front passenger seat, fluffing her blow-dried hair and pausing for one final appraising look at her makeup in the outside rear-view mirror before joining her camera-man.
The shuddering would not stop. She had been a vain and foolish creature, dangerous as well — she had almost gotten them killed when she had freed Stringfellows bushmaster — but silly or not, foolish or not, dangerous or not, no man or women deserved to die like that. She walked up the side lawn to the cellar bulkhead which was almost directly below Pauls window. Only the name of the unfortunate Miss Charlotte Evelyn-Hyde, late of Storping-on-Firkill, the village just to the west of Little Dunthorpe, was sufficient to bring a scream tearing from her.
He held on, and now he was lying squarely on top of her like a man who means to commit rape, his face almost on hers; his right hand groped, knowing exactly what it was looking for. He straightened up, eyes wide.
His thin arms were trembling, the stump of his thumb aching feverishly, his forehead covered with a thin oil of sweat. But a book should last a long time, Annie, and if I write this one on Corrasable, youre going to have nothing but a bunch of blank papers in ten years or so.