Patricia Highsmith, The black house

Something the cat dragged in

A few seconds of pondering silence in the scrabble game was interrupted by a rustle of plastic at the cat door: Portland Bill was coming in again. Nobody paid any attention. Michael and Gladys Herbert were ahead, Gladys doing a bit better than her husband.

The Herberts played scrabble often and were quite sharp at it. Colonel Edward Phelps - a neighbour and a good friend - was limping along, and his American niece Phyllis, aged nineteen, had been doing well but had lost interest in the last ten minutes. It would soon be teatime. The Colonel was sleepy and looked it. [...]