***
The door bell rings and I know who it is. Roger called from a pay phone last night. In begging for sanctuary I pretended to be angry with him for escaping but then relented, suggesting he stop in Saturday at 11:00 a.m.
I send Douglas to the door with the key to the clothing box. Roger knows he is to remove all he wears.
I await in the living room, lounging in my bathrobe, reading the morning paper and catching up on some magazines. Douglas has been serenading me with his bells, busy cleaning, gleeful in being permitted motion. Before me on the coffee table, having arrived by messenger in an unmarked brown package, is Roger’s neck collar. Thick, broad, heavy, Ms. Cromwell has spared no effort. I have already come to the conclusion that probably imbedded within is some type of listeni
