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" "I got to my feet and looked around the room. Just a room, only the one door. I tiptoed towards it. When I passed Janie, she opened her eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered.
‘None of your business,’ I told her. I went to the door as if I didn’t care, but I watched her. She didn’t do anything. The door was as solid tight closed as when I’d tried it before.
I went back to Janie. She just looked up at me. She wasn’t scared. I told her, ‘I got to go to the john.'
’‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Why’n’t you say so?’
'Suddenly I grunted and grabbed my guts. The feeling I had I can’t begin to talk about. I acted as if it was a pain, but it wasn’t. It was like nothing else that ever happened to me before. Something went splop on the snow outside.'
‘Okay,’ Janie said. ‘Go on back to bed.'
‘But I got to – ’
'You got to what?'
’Nothing.’ It was true. I didn’t have to go no place.
Theodore Sturgeon (born Edward Hamilton Waldo, 26 February 1918 – 8 May 1985) was an American author of science fiction, essayist, and poet.
Biography information from Wikiquote
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Why do you talk all the time?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question, but she cocked her head on one side and considered it carefully.
“I think it’s ’cause I don’t know any big words, like you and Mummy,” she said, just in time to pull me out of my magazine again, “so I have to use lots and lots of little ones.
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He had been released with alacrity from the office because of his propensity for small office politics. It was a game he still played, and completely aside from his boiled-looking red face and his slightly womanish walk, he was out of place in the field, for boot-licking and back-stabbing accomplish even less out on the field than they do in an office.