to do so. You had no permission to be up here." "I'm sorry." I said. "I didn't really touch
anything."
She pursed her lips and gazed at me skeptically,
after which she looked into the room as if she would
be able to tell in an instant if I had moved a single
dress or boot.
"There's no reason for you to be on this floor,"
she emphasized. "I thought I heard someone above my room, and thought it might be one of the others," I explained. I knew it couldn't possibly be one of my fellow students, but she made me feel so guilty, her eyes narrowing with cold suspicion. that I thought I had better come up with some other sensible explanation, even though all I was guilty of was
curiosity.
"Isn't it time for your next session?" she asked,
or more like commanded.
"Yes."
"Then you had better get going."
I started out and she went further in. I hesitated
in the doorway. What was she doing? Was she really
checking to see if I had taken anything? How could
anyone keep track of all that was in here anyway?
And why would I take anything from the room? I lingered in the doorway and watched her trace
my steps toward the rear. Then she surprised me by
lifting away the old gowns as I had done and then
testing to see if the door was still locked. Suddenly
she spun around, as if she could feel my eyes on the
back of her neck.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Nothing," I said quickly and hurried away and
down the stairs. Where did that door go? Was
someone singing behind it? Who?
Curiosity was certainly a warm on a hook for
me. I thought. And like the perennial fish, it would
Zet me in trouble. too. I felt sure of that.
After our speech lesson, during which we were