“I don’t give a damn about that,” Marya said fiercely. “These earrings are gold. Put antiseptic on them. . . . Just pierce my ears and put them in and I’ll pay you and that’s all.”

“Do you have five dollars?” the young man said curtly.

CROSSING THE QUADRANGLE between Stafford Hall and the chapel one cold May afternoon, Marya caught sight of Imogene approaching her. It had been approximately two weeks since the theft of the earrings—two weeks during which Marya had worn the earrings everywhere, for everyone to see, to comment upon, to admire. She and Imogene had frequently noticed each other, usually at a distance, though once in rather close quarters on a crowded stairway; and Marya had been amused at Imogene’s shocked expression: and the clumsy way she’d turned aside, pretending she hadn’t seen Marya and Marya’s new earrings.

Not a very good actress after all, Marya thought.

Now, however, Imogene was approaching head-on, though her movements were rather forced, wooden. Marya didn’t slacken her pace; she was headed for the library. She wore her raincoat half unbuttoned, her head was bare, her hair loose, the earrings swung heavily as she walked, tugged at her earlobes. (Yes, her earlobes were sore. Probably infected, Marya thought indifferently, waking in the night to small stabs of pain.)

Imogene’s face was dead white, and not very attractive. Something horsy about that face, after all, Marya thought. Her mouth was strained, and the tendons in her neck were clearly visible as, suddenly, she ran at Marya. She was screaming something about “hillbilly bitch”—“thief”—She grabbed at Marya’s left ear, she would have ripped the earring out of Marya’s flesh, but Marya was too quick for her: she knew instinctively what Imogene would try to do.

She struck Imogene’s hand aside and gave her a violent shove; Imogene slapped her hard across the face; Marya slapped her. “You bitch!” Imogene cried. “You won’t get away with this! I know you!”

All their books had fallen to the sidewalk, Imogene’s leather bag was tripping her up, passersby stopped to stare, incredulous. What a sight, Imogene Skillman and Marya Knauer fighting, in front of the chapel, both in blue jeans, both livid with rage. Marya was shouting, “Don’t you touch me, you! What do you mean, touching me!” She was the better fighter, crouching with her knees bent, like a man, swinging at Imogene, striking her on the jaw. Not a slap but an actual punch: Marya’s fist was unerring.

The blow was a powerful one, for Marya struck from the shoulder. Imogene’s head snapped back—blood appeared on her mouth—she staggered backward and swayed, almost lost her balance. “Oh Marya,” she said.