Marcie fluffed up her green pillow. It must be in that certain shape, just the right size. She fluffed it again, and again, then rolled over and pushed that poor pillow into another shape.
“Will you quit!” I yelled from my side of the room.
“What?” Marcie questioned, just a bit annoyed.
“For pity sake, you’ve been fiddle-farting around with that pillow for at least twenty minutes. I’m over here trying to read.” I again went back to my book.
“Well I can’t sleep if this pillow isn’t just right.” Marcie again punched the pillow, rolled it into a ball, flopped over in her bed.
Finally after about ten minutes all was quiet, then. “What’re you reading?”
“A book by Currer Bell. ‘Jane Eyre’. Now leave me alone.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “I thought someone else wrote ‘Jane Eyre’. Charlotte something or other.”
“You’re smarter than you look. Currer Bell was Charlotte Bronte’s pen name.”
Marcie was silent for a moment. Then, “What’s a pen name?”
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