Mystery Guest

Even those in attendance were in the dark about where the negotiations were being held. Henry had arrived by means beyond him. There was no indication of date or time, but it was reasonable to assume that not much time had passed, as everyone appeared clean and freshly dressed. He scanned the crowd for a familiar face but recognized no one. Easly convinced that those in charge had arranged it so that all were strangers, Henry lowered his eyes and began that most loathsome activity of waiting... Henriette began writing because there were no good books on the shelf. Not that she knew what a good book was, but she had a better idea of what interested her than any of those strangers lined up alphabetically. It wasn't autobiographical as one might assume. Henriette was not self absorbed or narcassistic by any means. But she wasn't political, and couldn't tell you the first thing about the world, even geographically, outside five hundred miles from home. This doesn't mean she was shallow either. Infact, there was apparently more to see within her small radius than she had ever wanted to.

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