By Peter De Vries
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Extra resources for Slouching Towards Kalamazoo
I had a friend who was into things Eastern,” she said, hanging my coat in the closet. “He's in Nepal now,” she added, as though to allay fears that he too might slip past Mrs. Clicko and wander in, swathed in a turban and mumbling a mantra. She was trying to liquidate reminders of him by using them up as fast as possible, simply throwing them out being too callous for her. A window had been raised to clear the air, and after closing it against the November chill she struck a pose behind the lace curtain that had billowed momentarily into the room, drawing an end of it humorously against her face.
Limburger set by wits on dormitory radiators. None of this would be mine if I didn't haul up my socks and get with it. Miss Doubloon rose and walked to the window, where she stood nursing her elbows as she gazed outward into the lightly falling snow. She seemed to give a faint shudder before coming out with one of those suddenly assertive, even savage, remarks of which she was capable. They were often out of left field, but this one was sequential, albeit after a gap allowing for private rumination of an apparently acrimonious nature.
I called over. Miss Doubloon here turned her head again, less in the spirit of inquiry than with a frown of impatience at all this ill-timed and burdensome erudition. She also seemed to emit a sigh, but with the sibilance of the radiators overlaying it, it was hard to tell. ” “Around. I keep my ear to the ground. Few people know that — about Gandhi, ! mean. The figure we know and revere as a holy man in a loincloth once went around London in a frock coat and top hat, twiddling a walking stick, the works.