Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twenty A fresh fall of snow blanketed the asylum grounds—not a Christmas sprinkle, but a man-high January deluge, the sort that snuffs out schools and offices and churches, and leaves, for a day or more, a pure, blank sheet in place of memo pads, date books and calendars.

Chapter Nineteen 'I'm going to be a psychiatrist.' Joan spoke with her usual breathy enthusiasm. We were drinking apple cider in the Belsize lounge.

Chapter Eighteen 'Esther.' I woke out of a deep, drenched sleep, and the first thing I saw was Doctor Nolan's face swimming in front of me and saying, 'Esther, Esther.'

Chapter Seventeen 'You're a lucky girl today.' The young nurse cleared my breakfast tray away and left me wrapped in my white blanket like a passenger taking the sea air on the deck of a ship.

Chapter Sixteen Joan's room, with its closet and bureau and table and chair and white blanket with the big blue C on it, was a mirror image of my own.

Chapter Fifteen Philomena Guinea's black Cadillac eased through the tight, five o'clock traffic like a ceremonial car.

Chapter Fourteen It was completely dark. I felt the darkness, but nothing else, and my head rose, feeling it, like the head of a worm. Someone was moaning. Then a great, hard weight smashed against my cheek like a stone wall and the moaning stopped.

Chapter Twelve Doctor Gordon's private hospital crowned a grassy rise at the end of a long, secluded drive that had been whitened with broken quahog shells.

Chapter Eleven Doctor Gordon's waiting-room was hushed and beige. The walls were beige, and the carpets were beige, and the upholstered chairs and sofas were beige.

Chapter Nine 'I'm so glad they're going to die.' Hilda arched her cat-limbs in a yawn, buried her head in her arms on the conference table and went back to sleep. A wisp of bilious green straw perched on her brow like a tropical bird.