CHAPTER 3Wednesday, too, was gray; ashen clouds were piled low across the Manhattan sky; gun-metal pools glistened on the Avenue; from Don’s office window the wet sidewalks looked as if they might have been paved with raw oysters. The only bright note was Sibyl’s gentian suit—but she herself was definitely not on the cheery side.
To begin with, she had been late, which was extraordinary, for she always made it a practice to range the aisles during the half hour between eight-thirty and nine to familiarize herself with such “specialties du jour” as the Store Superlative allowed itself to display. Then, she had not telephoned an explanation of her tardiness. Finally she had marched grimly into the office of the Chief of Store Protection at nine-fifteen with the brief announcement:
“Timmy’s
