She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere. “I am going through the other rooms. The Bitchster strikes again. All that is jolly and as it should be. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. The light touch of Ah Cum's hand upon her arm broke the thread of retrospective thought; and her gray eyes began to register again the things she saw.
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