“I am not dressed,” I called. I thrust shut the bolt on the bathroom door. I did

“I am not dressed,” I called. I thrust shut the bolt on the bathroom door. I did not understand how he could have obtained entrance. I had had the door to the apartment not only locked but bolted. “Have you cleaned your body?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. I thought he had put that in an unusual fashion. “Have you washed your hair?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. I had done so. “Come out,” he said. “Do you see my robe out there?” I called. “Use a towel,” he said. “I will be out in a moment,” I said. I hastily dried my hair and put a towel about it, and then I wrapped a large towel about my body, tucking it shut under my left arm. I looked about for my slippers. I had thought I had put them at the foot of the vanity. But they, like the robe, did not seem to be where I thought I had left them. I slid back the bolt on the bathroom door and, barefoot, entered the hall. There were, I saw, three men in the kitchen. One was he whom I now knew well. The other two, who wore uniforms much of a sort one expects in professional movers, I did not recognize. “You look lovely,” said the first man, he whom I recognized, he who was, by now, familiar to me. “Thank you,” I said. “Make us some coffee,” he said. I proceeded, frightened, to do so. I was very conscious of my state of dishabille. Their eyes, I could sense, were much on me. I felt very small among their powerful bodies. I was conscious, acutely, how different I was from them.