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Show 44, Jeffries, Islamorada "Yes well, h e - " and she managed to cough into unintelligibility. When he watched her strip from the bright Fila warm-ups he sucked in a little gasp. Shapely legs, but what Diamond had mentioned, the slight seven-pound difference between herself and her mother, he could see each and maybe the ounces. In a dimple at the knee. Three pounds at the hips. And just the slightest bulge under the chin, smaller than a lady bunny's milk gland. A great racemare. This spoke well for Diamond; it looked like Lane's filly could go a distance. And Mrs. Griffin was moving nicely on her forehand court, warming up those deep ground strokes that would get them the first set off Smith-Jones. But then luck turned and they broke his service and Jones fired a forehand at him; he had the wrong grip for the block volley, a gut string broke as he heard a second fragile snap' Mrs. Griffin, coming into poach was in a heap in his lap. He looked sideways round at the scorecards. "Well Speedball," he smiled sympathetically down at her, "I think we just went out 6-1, 1-3, retired." "Yeah God damn it," she agreed, "Goddamn quarter-finalist bridesmaid every time--" |