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Overdue! "She bent. He was already nine pages into Chapter 7 — Geoffrey and Mrs Ramage had managed to get Misery out of her grave in the barest nick of time only to realize that the woman had no idea at all who they were, or who she herself was — when Annie came into the room. Here was the secular version of the Pentecostal fire, burning before her very eyes. She had kept him because he was Paul Sheldon, and she — "She's my number-one fan,»Paul muttered, and put an arm over his eyes. When he woke up Annie was shaking him and bright morning sun was slanting in the window — the snow had ended. One day not long before the thumbectomy — perhaps even less than a week — Annie had come in with two giant dishes of vanilla ice-cream, a can of Hershey's chocolate syrup, a pressure can of Reddi-Whip, and a jar in which maraschino cherries red as heart's blood floated like biology specimens.Relief gusted through him. Doesn't matter. People who tell stories usually can't write stories. His legs flared and he cried out. Ramage's knees unlocked and she buckled forward, near to swooning again.

Annie apparently not only pinched and slapped herself when she was feeling depressed. Having a novel end exactly the way you thought it would when you started out would be like shooting a Titan missile halfway around the world and having the payload drop through a basketball hoop. It makes the stuff you guys do look about as scary as a ride on the Central Park carousel. "Annie was going on gaily as Paul imagined the rear bumper of his Camaro surfacing through the rotted snow for the sun to twinkle on. She was a woman full of tornadoes waiting to happen, and if he had been a farmer observing a sky which looked the way Annie's face looked right now, he would have at once gone to collect his family and herd them into the storm cellar. What would she think, he wondered, of that man as he looked now, forty pounds lighter and ten years older, his legs a pair of crooked useless horrors? "Please, God, please,»he moaned as the Cherokee started outside with a bang and a roar. Here, by one of the rock walls, was the source of that flumping, dragging sound: a mattress. It was only after midnight, an hour after Geoffrey had ridden into the gathering storm to try and fetch the doctor, that the midwife had grown alarmed. But the damp wildness of the shadows and the boom of her laughter were too much and he shrieked for her not to do this to him, not to leave him, but she only went on laughing and there was a click as the door was shut and her laughter was muted but her laughter was still there, her laughter was on the other side of the door, where there was light, and then the lock clicked, and then another door closed and her laughter was even more muted (but still there), and another lock clicked and a bolt slammed, and her laughter was going away, her laughter was outside, and even after she had started the cruiser up, backed out, put the chain across the driveway, and driven away, he thought he could still hear her. Waited for his unseen chest to go up again on its own, as it had been doing his whole life without any help from him. It would be yet awhile before his number-one fan brought him the old clacking Royal with the grinning gapped mouth and the Ducky Daddles voice, but Paul understood long before then that he was in a hell of a jam , you raised your hand if you thought she had, left it down if you thought she had blown it. This was an old-fashioned room with bright linoleum on the floor and a pressed-tin ceiling. Paul flicked it and saw a neat shed addition which ran the length of the house on its windward side. She could smell Gwendolyn Chastain's perfume in the moment before the madwoman's hands closed around her throat. Sometimes thoughts came, and sometimes there was pain, and sometimes, dimly, he heard Annie's voice, sounding the way it had when the burning manuscript in the barbecue had threatened to get out of control: "Drink this, Paul. He groped for whatever it might mean, but for a long time the sounds interrupted. The cop looked like a big doll that has been badly treated by a gang of nasty children. The language of the book had grown florid and overblown again — it was not self-parody yet, not quite, but it was floating steadily in that direction and he seemed helpless to stop it. Whenever she came into the room he thought of the graven images worshipped by superstitious African tribes in the novels of H. He could calculate her rage, but there was something in this new _expression_ which was as opaque as it was childish.