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Freshman nymphThe bell rang, punctuating his lecture In mid-sentence. He finished his point, shouting above the clamor of students gathering up their possessions and ready to desert him, then turned and, first one out the door, started down the hail at a brisk clip. He had office hours now, in case anyone wanted to talk to him. Dave closed the door of his office behind him, sat down at his desk, shuffled aside the litter of books that covered it, and lit a cigarette. Into the space he had cleared he placed the new American Historical Review, opening it to skim over the book reviews. There was a knock at his door, and he said "Come in," without turning. "Professor Shearing," said a voice behind him. "It's Mister Shearing," Dave corrected, beginning to turn. "I'm not a professor yet." And his eyes lit upon a pair of slim shapely feet in open sandals, drifted up subtly tanned thighs and calves to the high-rising hem of a short white tennis dress, and sped upward to make contact with the eyes of the lovely blonde from the class just dismissed. "I'm sorry to bother you," she said with a fetching smile, "but my name is Becky Ryan, and I'm in your 1:30 class, and I wanted to ask you-" "Of course," he interrupted, "Miss Ryan." He flashed an instant memory of a well-done exam paper signed "Ryan, Rebecca M." and life fell pleasantly into place ...» |
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