Michael Malone - Weebly

hobby?"
She guffawed as rudely as Dr. Johnson. "Don't be
an idiot. And don't think I'm one. They're my father's.
Loved graven images.
Stuffed ones, too. One of those types of Catholics
enraptured by anything killed in an unpleasant way.
Have some port."
"No, thank you. I'm sorry. I don't drink." The
curate sat in his immaculate black clerical suit in a highbacked
chair with claws carved into the arms. Across
the tea (or port) table Ramona Dingley perched, also in
black, on a motorized wheelchair which, to her visitor's
disconcertion, she kept starting and stopping in little
jumps as she talked. She liked motion. A private
elevator brought her plummeting down each morning
from her fourth-floor bedroom. Her housekeeper drove
her briskly around Lake Pissinowno in the Firebird, but
never fast enough. Ramona was a thin person whom
age had annoyingly loaded down with weight. Her
hawk face jutted strangely out of the fat—hawks are
rarely obese—and her plump arms ended strangely in
strong, claw-like hands.