“SHE’S BATS, THAT GIRL,” SAID DOTTIE. “I MEAN, HONESTLY, BATS. She does the damnedest things.”
“She must be charming,” I said.
“Honestly, though!” said Dottie. “You should see her. She’ll sit down here and talk about the craziest notions she’s got, like buying the university and turning it into a pig farm because no one would ever notice the difference.”
“Already I like her,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Dottie, “and she’ll read all the time, or go banging away on that damned old typewriter of hers, and then she’ll talk and talk. She can spout poetry by the hour, honest.”
“When can I meet her?” I asked.
“God, you don’t wanna,” said Dottie. “She says the damnedest things, honest. She’s liable to get you into an argument on some screwy subject like religion, and then make you talk all night, or she’ll tell you about some damned book she’s been reading, about logic or pyramids or some other crazy thing, honest, and you’ll go nuts.”
“That strikes a chord,” I said.
“Really,” said Dottie. “But she can tell some swell stories, I’ll say that for her. She’s all the time got some wild line about something. Honestly, you’d die if you heard her.”
“She sounds familiar,” I said.
“Oh, and yeah!” said Dottie. “I almost forgot the screwiest thing of all. She’s gonna be a writer! Honest—can you imagine? A writer? God, the things some people will think of. She’s some screwy dame, I’m telling you, honest.”
“I think I know her,” I said.