“And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. Spurlock halted in his tracks. She's my mealticket. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. She could not help devouring him a little with her eyes across the Burger King booth, handsome shoulders visibly solid underneath his ridiculous polo shirt, his eyes all sweetness and light.
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