She put her hand behind my neck, pulled my face roughly up to hers. Slipping her body half over mine she looked down at me and whispered. "I found you... magazines. I found your clothes, too. It took a little detective work, but I know everything now." I was so frightened. I was, for a brief instant, utterly certain that she would leave me. I tried to summon up the speech I had prepared months before for just such a moment of revelation. The words died in my throat. None of the explanations, none. Brinson just smiled and said, "shouldn't you be concentrating on your art work?" "i'm trying," i replied. with my eyes on the easel she got up off her chair and rolled a typing desk to her chair and took her seat which was 15 or 20 feet away from where i sat. the typing desk was just a table top on a frame of metal legs. i swallowed nervously realizing i now had an unobstructed view of mrs. brinson's legs. as she worked the keys of the typewriter she began to cross and uncross. More

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