Mrs. Malthus, like most of her students, stole looks at the clock. She wished she could join the happy few who were unobtrusively – and, some, obviously – sleeping. Don Pardo’s snoring was the only thing keeping her brain from shutting down entirely.
Lillian wasn’t sure she believed in God, but she most certainly believed in her mother.
Harold lumbered into the kitchen. The kitchen was her territory. Everyone knew the kitchen belonged to the lady of the house, but Harold, of course, must invade it – must assert his mastery of every inch of his domain.
Rats are my life. Never married; never will; no woman alive would eat, breathe, and dream rats, as I do.
Not nasty rats, though. With every man’s hand turned against them, feral rats are canny and fierce. They’re a danger to life and property, and no mistake. Let’s not forget The Black Plague, although technically that was fleas, not the rats proper.
