My first editor used to say that eighty-five percent ofwhat goes on in a novelist's head is none of his business, a sentimentI've never believed should be restricted to just writers. Nothing snatched them out of my hands; nothing froze the sweaton the back of my neck; Bunter's bell didn't ring. He turned pale and showed the headline, WAR WITHGERMANY IMMINENT. Jerry Burnham was the little redfaced man who'd been such a help with the colonel the first night Eveline got to Paris.
Afraid ofwhat? Well. After Janey had told him al the news about the family and how she liked her job and expected a raise Christm Okay, I'll see who I can find. She tottered, one arm pointed up at the sky and one down atthe water so she looked for a moment like an airplane in a steep bank.
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