I'm Ellen Bennet. Schoolteacher. I'm fallinginto a rhythm now, happy that my lesson plans are not too crazy, andthat the kids just expected me to know...what I'm doing without meactually having to know what I'm doing. I'm even starting to remembersome of their names. My day looks pretty great: Creative writing first,then poetry -- Emily Dickinson, be still my romantic heart. Publicspeaking after recess, then Shakespeare and Fitzgerald to close the day.Not a class to dread yet, we're all still too. “Oh, so you think my comfort is something every guest who slumbers beneath our roof should enjoy. We have girls for that. They would be more than willing to provide that.”“But I'm not interested in girls tonight,” I said. “I want a woman. Ripe and mature.” I glanced at the last door. “Is this it.”“Yes, it is,” she said and grabbed the brass handle set in the wood. Her thumb depressed a lever and the latch clicked. She opened it up. The craftsmanship here was superb. The room was located at the. More

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