(no subject)
The Sunday New York Times is about as thick as a hotel Bible; Susannah Toren has two of them to get through each week. She's parked and settled at her table for a few hours of scenery change, and in addition to the newspapers there's an accordion portfolio and a notebook and pen to one side, a medical supply catalog under that, and a Dragonfly cocktail and a bowl of sweet potato chips towards the middle of the table.
When the papers get too depressing, she works on the papers in the portfolio (covered in odd, looping script and annotated in her own hand) or the notes she's been making in the notebook; when she's really ready for a break, she flips through the catalog, looking at new wheelchairs. She has not been in every respect satisfied with the green model she's sitting in now.
When the papers get too depressing, she works on the papers in the portfolio (covered in odd, looping script and annotated in her own hand) or the notes she's been making in the notebook; when she's really ready for a break, she flips through the catalog, looking at new wheelchairs. She has not been in every respect satisfied with the green model she's sitting in now.