She sat on a big chair with her head thrown back on its cold, shiny leather paneling, her feet pulled up under her. A small arc of yellow light from the bridge lamp shut her off from the darkness of the room, and she turned her head as if to listen to the stillness. There was no sound-only a thick whir of silence. On her lap lay a crinkled piece of dirty paper with a handful of words hurriedly scribbled across it.
Kessler, Mary Alice
"Each Man's Soul,"
Manuscripts: Vol. 12
, Article 2.
Available at: http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol12/iss1/2