hide.No more than it's normal for a young woman,says she has a husband and kids,to spend her time rattling away on a typewriter.”“But I don't think that--” Para.55:He lifted his hand,a forgiving gesture."Now all I ask is,that you be open and aboveboard with me,I think I deserve that much,and if you are using that office for any other purpose,or at any other times than you let on,and having your friends or whoever they are up to see you-" Para.56:"I don't know what you mean." Para.57:"And another thing,you claim to be a writer.Well I read quite a bit of material,and I never have seen your name in print.Now maybe you write under some other name?" Para.58:No,”I said Para.59:"Well I don't doubt there are writers whose names I haven't heard,"he said genially. "We'll let that pass.Just you give me your word of honour there won't be any more deceptions,or any carryings-on,et cetera,in that office you occupy-" Para.60:My anger was delayed somehow,blocked off by a stupid incredulity.I only knew enough to get up and walk down the hall,his voice trailing after me,and lock the door.I thought-I must go.But after I had sat down in my own room,my work in front of me,I thought again how much I liked this room, how well I worked in it,and I decided not to be forced out.After all,I felt,the struggle between us had reached a deadlock.I could refuse to open the door,refuse to look at his notes,refuse to speak to him when we met.My rent was paid in advance and if I left now it was unlikely that I would get any refund.I resolved not to care.I had been taking my manuscript home every night,to prevent his reading it,and now it seemed that even this precaution was beneath me.What did it matter if he read it,any more than if the mice scampered over it in the dark? Para.61:Several times after this I found notes on my door.I intended not to read them,but I always did.His accusations grew more specific.He had heard voices in my room.My behaviour was disturbing his wife when she tried to take her afternoon nap.(I never came in the afternoons,except on weekends.)He had found a whisky bottle in the garbage. Para.62:I wondered a good deal about that chiropractor.It was not comfortable to see how the legends of Mr.Malley's life were built up. Para.63:As the notes grew more virulent our personal encounters ceased.Once or twice I saw his stooped,sweatered back disappearing as I came into the hall.Gradually our relationship passed into something that was entirely fantasy.He accused me now,by note,of being intimate with people from Numero Cing.This was a coffee-house in the neighbourhood,which I imagine he invoked for symbolic purposes.I felt that nothing much more would happen now,the notes would go on,their contents becoming possibly more grotesque and so less likely to affect me. Para.64:He knocked on my door on a Sunday morning,about eleven o'clock.I had just come in and taken my coat off and put my kettle on the hot plate. Para.65:This time it was another face,remote and transfigured,that shone with the cold light of intense joy at discovering the proofs of sin. Para.66:"I wonder,"he said with emotion,"if you would mind following me down the hall?" 77 hide. No more than it’s normal for a young woman, says she has a husband and kids, to spend her time rattling away on a typewriter.” “But I don’t think that—” Para.55: He lifted his hand, a forgiving gesture. “Now all I ask is, that you be open and aboveboard with me, I think I deserve that much, and if you are using that office for any other purpose, or at any other times than you let on, and having your friends or whoever they are up to see you—” Para.56: “I don’t know what you mean.” Para.57: “And another thing, you claim to be a writer. Well I read quite a bit of material, and I never have seen your name in print. Now maybe you write under some other name?” Para.58: “No,” I said. Para.59: “Well I don’t doubt there are writers whose names I haven’t heard,” he said genially. “We’ll let that pass. Just you give me your word of honour there won’t be any more deceptions, or any carryings-on, et cetera, in that office you occupy—” Para.60: My anger was delayed somehow, blocked off by a stupid incredulity. I only knew enough to get up and walk down the hall, his voice trailing after me, and lock the door. I thought—I must go. But after I had sat down in my own room, my work in front of me, I thought again how much I liked this room, how well I worked in it, and I decided not to be forced out. After all, I felt, the struggle between us had reached a deadlock. I could refuse to open the door, refuse to look at his notes, refuse to speak to him when we met. My rent was paid in advance and if I left now it was unlikely that I would get any refund. I resolved not to care. I had been taking my manuscript home every night, to prevent his reading it, and now it seemed that even this precaution was beneath me. What did it matter if he read it, any more than if the mice scampered over it in the dark? Para.61: Several times after this I found notes on my door. I intended not to read them, but I always did. His accusations grew more specific. He had heard voices in my room. My behaviour was disturbing his wife when she tried to take her afternoon nap. (I never came in the afternoons, except on weekends.) He had found a whisky bottle in the garbage. Para.62: I wondered a good deal about that chiropractor. It was not comfortable to see how the legends of Mr. Malley’s life were built up. Para.63: As the notes grew more virulent our personal encounters ceased. Once or twice I saw his stooped, sweatered back disappearing as I came into the hall. Gradually our relationship passed into something that was entirely fantasy. He accused me now, by note, of being intimate with people from Numero Cinq. This was a coffee-house in the neighbourhood, which I imagine he invoked for symbolic purposes. I felt that nothing much more would happen now, the notes would go on, their contents becoming possibly more grotesque and so less likely to affect me. Para.64: He knocked on my door on a Sunday morning, about eleven o’clock. I had just come in and taken my coat off and put my kettle on the hot plate. Para.65: This time it was another face, remote and transfigured, that shone with the cold light of intense joy at discovering the proofs of sin. Para.66: “I wonder,” he said with emotion, “if you would mind following me down the hall?