Lash the librarian!

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"Well, I guess that's all right, Mrs. Benson," Annabelle Jackson said hesitantly. She looked around the library as if somebody might overhear her. It was quiet, late Friday afternoon and there weren't many people around.

"Oh, call me Hilary, please," the woman on the other end of the phone cooed. "It's so good of you to do this for me. You've got the address? Good. Sexual Repression in the Nineteenth Century, I need it for a paper I'm doing."

"I'll get it for you," Annabelle said. "I can take it out on my ticket."

She put the phone down vaguely irritated. Hilary Benson was a woman in her early forties, Annabelle guessed, who had started coming into the library only a few weeks before and made a special point of being attentive to Annabelle. Hilary was a sophisticated woman, and Annabelle found her interesting and the attention irresistible.

So she wasn't sure why she should feel as she did when Hilary phoned and asked if she could possibly deliver a book to her after work. It was really against library policy, but there was no danger.

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