11: Thursday: Interview With Reservations
CALLAGHAN sat up in bed, drank coffee and ate toast and marmalade off a tray. The fact that the Chinese clock on the mantelpiece had chimed twelve o'clock disturbed him not at all. He was thinking about Azelda Dixon.
Azelda was, he thought, an intriguing type. He imagined that she had been rather a nice sort of woman at one time. Probably life had been a little tough on her and she had hit back in the only way she knew. He thought it a pity that the Azeldas of life 'couldn't take it' and must forever be trying to score off the fates that treated them—from their point of view—too harshly for endurance.
Callaghan, a piece of toast poised half-way between the tray and his mouth, wondered just how much she really knew, just how much she was merely a
