Mr. Nutley said to his wife. “I used to, you remember,” Mrs. Nutley replied. “But then I found it was sufficient simply to lie here and compose my thoughts. To get my head together, as the kids say.” “I envy you. You never have any trouble sleeping.” “Oh, I do. At times. To be perfectly honest,” she added, “I think women fuss less than men.” “I don’t fuss about it,” Mr. Nutley protested, putting aside his copy of The New Yorker magazine and switching off his bedside light. “I just find it damned unpleasant. I’m not an insomniac. I just get a notion and it keeps running around in my head.” “Do you have a notion tonight?” “I find Ralph Thompson a pain in the ass, if you can call that a notion.” “That’s certainly not enough to keep you awake. I must say I’ve always found him pleasant enough—for a neighbor. We could do worse, you know.” “I suppose so.” “Why are you so provoked about him?” Mrs. Nutley asked, pulling the covers closer to her chin against the chill of the bedroom.
