So what are you going to do? Paul made a wounded, baffled noise, lowered his hand, and then leaned back, panting.
I always catch eight or nine. He opened his mouth, meaning to speak or perhaps scream again, and she stuffed the rag into it before he could do either. but even through the tears his eyes were conning the room, looking for something, anything, inspiration, a break, just a fucking br — He was looking into the linen closet again, and his rapid breath suddenly stopped. The movement ended the uneasy truce with the pain in his legs and the drug-need in his nerves, but it also diffused his terror a little.
The anger and humiliation surged again, awakening the first dull answering throb in his legs. "Her face was darkening.
The snow-storm to which Paul had awakened the day after his expedition to the bathroom had gone on for two days — there had been at least eighteen inches of new fall, and heavy drifting. She absently tore the rag that was choking him out of his mouth and threw it on the floor.