Without the protection of John’s star power, certain denizens of the school found new reserves of energy and turned their attention to her, especially Kate Pfister, a bleach blonde with a face that was a plain sort of pretty who had once dated John. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house.
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