…which surprised her, and took her aback…
diary /
…“Bessie, listen”…
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…with a haste that seemed to arrive ahead of its utterance…
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…she heard a voice say to her…
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…and brought it to her ear…
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…and lifted the receiver…
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And when she reached the table…
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She crossed the room, intending to answer it.
diary /
And she saw, when she looked into the room that the door opened onto, a table on which was a telephone that had started ringing.
diary /
diary /
This one opened.
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She tried the other.
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It was locked.
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‘click-click, click-click’
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She tried one of them…
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The woman had stopped in front of two doors, neither of which she’d encountered before.
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And yet, in its highest form, fiction is an expression of truth.
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Not that, in the scheme of things, very much is at stake, for what I’m describing might be referred to as only a fiction.
diary /
Or, anyway, to reconcile the novel to it.
diary /
So that if I make a misstep, and move the drama in a direction I wish I hadn’t, I’ll have to admit to it, or find a way to reconcile it to the novel.