At night the books discussed themselves, waiting for the man to fall asleep because they really had no use for his opinion. Tonight they were planning on Nabokov’s Lolita and already grumbling from the top shelf had begun. Likely Austen and the Bronte sisters, prissy old maids that they were.
On the lower right Vonnegut leaned over and whispered something foul to Wolfe who snickered in reply. Virginia overheard and merely sighed.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology