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“It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. ” John stopped by in his car to visit Lucy during the Beck’s Thanksgiving all-day dinner and football marathon. "I must tell you," she was saying. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. “I don’t see quite what your game is, Vee, but I suppose you’ve got a game on somewhere. “Going to visit our little friend the vampire?” “What?” He asked, incredulous. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. ‘So are you.
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