"John Norman - Gor 07 - Captive of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

but she should have known better. As a rich girl I had little difficulty in
making friends. I was extremely popular. I do not recall anyone to whom I could
talk. My holidays I preferred to spend in Europe.

I could afford to dress well, and I did. My hair was always as I wanted it, even
when it appeared, deceptively, as most charmingly neglected. A bit of ribbon, a
color on an accessory, the proper shade of expensive lipstick, the stitching on
a skirt, the quality of leather in an imported belt and matching shoes, nothing
was unimportant. When pleading for an extension for an overdue paper I would
wear scuffed loafers, blue jeans and a sweatshirt, and hair ribbon. I would at
such times smudge a bit of ink from a typewriter ribbon on my cheek and fingers.
I would always get the extra time I needed. I did not, of course, do my own
typing. Usually, however, I wrote my own papers. It pleased me to do so. I liked
them better than those I could purchase. One of my instructors, from whom I had
won an extension in the afternoon, did not recognize me the same evening when he
sat some rows behind me at a chamber music performance at the Lincoln Center. He
was looking at me quizzically, and once, during an intermission, seemed on the
point of speaking. I chilled him with a look and he turned away, red faced. I
wore black, an upswept hairdo, pearls, white gloves. He did not dare look at me
again.

I do not know when I was noticed. It may have been on a street in New York, on a
sidewalk in London, at a caf├й in Paris. It may have been while sun-bathing on
the Riviera. It may even have been on the campus of my college. Somewhere.
Unknown to me, I was noted, and would be acquired.

Affluent and beautiful, I carried myself with a flair. I knew that I was better
than most people, and was not afraid to show them, in my manner, that this was
true. Interestingly, instead of being angered, most people, whatever may have
been their private feelings, seemed impressed and a bit frightened of me. They
accepted me at the face value which I set upon myself, which was considerable.
They would try to please me. I used to amuse myself with them, sometimes
pouting, pretending to be angry or displeased, then smiling to let them know
that I had forgiven them. They seemed grateful, radiant. How I despised them!
They bored me. I was rich, and fortunate and beautiful. They were nothing.

My father made his fortune in real estate in Chicago. He cared only for his
business, as far as I know. I cannot remember that he ever kissed me. I do not
recall seeing him, either, ever touch my mother, or she him, in my presence. She
came from a wealthy Chicago family, with extensive shore properties. I do not
believe my father was even interested in the money he made, other than in the
fact that he made more of it than most other men, but there were always others,
some others, who were richer than he. He was an unhappy, driven man. I recall my
mother entertaining in our home. This she often did. I recall my father once
mentioning to me that she was his most valuable asset. He had meant this to be a
compliment. I recall that she was beautiful. She poisoned a poodle I had once
had. It had torn one of her slippers. I was seven at the time, and I cried very
much. It had liked me. When I graduated neither my mother nor my father attended
the ceremony. That was the second time in my life, to that time, that I remember
crying. He had a business engagement, and my mother, in New York, where she was