‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. An unexpected vacancy, wasn’t it? Every one comes in on unexpected vacancy. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission. There were words, then, that ran on indefinitely, with reversals? Here they meant one thing; there, the exact opposite. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. My parents would have given me the money, so that is exactly why I didn’t ask them.
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