But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic. “Where am I?” he muttered. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. He munched his popcorn steadily, periodically offering it to her, but not his Coke, as that would be too bold, a saliva exchange. Gerald’s chest tightened. “You will have some tea?” she asked. The mighty concourse became for a moment still.
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