C. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all.
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