DISCONTINUITY
Raymond F. Jones
I
The middle-aged blond woman was like a sleek and expensive cat. Now, she was afraid. Her bruised face swathed in healing bandages, she sat in the big chair by the window of her husband’s office and watched his desk and the circle of his associates who were ringed about her.
She could feel hate like a hot radiance emitted by each of them. Their eyes stared as if she were some animal not of their species.
She spoke again. “I cannot give my permission. I would rather have David dead than—than like those others. Far rather!”
It was the third time she had said it and it only increased again the hate that surrounded her. Momentarily, she shrank in the chair. Then, as if she had retreated to a point beyond which she could not go, she sprang at them.
. . .
