No. I cannot handle any more real people. Three is enough to embroil me. Four was too many, though it took me until now to realize it. Mr. Geddoes was the easiest, and I would rather have lost my sister-in-law than him. She has, I confess, always been a little tricky for me to handle. It was inevitable that I’d lose my temper with her. It is always so hard to be sure she approves of what I say. So hard to keep her from seeing through my tidiness to whatever it is that lies inside. I still feel myself in disguise around her. Even my tight hair bun and the fresh smell of my flesh seem to be a costume that could be penetrated.

But I do miss gossiping with Jean. She has a shrewd, cold view of her neighbors that is delicious to me. She has no humor, but I have enjoyed a hundred people through her eyes that I would never have approached with my own.

I have no patience with the bland righteousness that condemns gossip. What are literature and history but distilled and fermented gossip? Those who relish Zola and delight in Herodotus but turn up their snoots at a bit over the fence are the same crew who prefer not to know where the Sunday roast hung on the steer, and who would lose their appetites if introduced to the chicken before being offered its succulent, crackling flesh. But I won’t defend it anymore. I am a snoop, an ear, a nose, an eye, but not a busybody. No more. I don’t interfere. I only listen and question from a distance. I am comfortable now. I sit at my heavy desk before the fire and brood over petty annoyances, manufacture antique responsibilities, and am ever, always conscious of the warmth of the room, the luxury of the paper, the sanitary state of my crotch, and to this day I do not know whether the presence of a rooster is necessary for hens to lay eggs.

The long days came. The scaffolding of school was ready to give way to another summer. I stood in line to register for a class in the fall. Professor Casper marched up the dark hall to his mailbox. He seemed to practically twinkle for the girls in the line. He performed a theatrical skip-step to show he noticed me and had something to say. His pants were neatly tailored. His hair was wet. He’d been swimming. He smelled good.

“My dear Sally. I was just thinking of you.”

I stood still. It was no use losing my place in line.

“Aren’t you a particular friend of the extraordinary Mr. Rosen?”

“I suppose.”

His Swiss accent didn’t sound anything like Clancy’s. His hand closed on my elbow and he elegantly led me out of line. I followed.