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And then, in her bare feet and a pink-cotton nightgown with a blue bird machine-stitched on the yoke, stood cocked to the hurry of indistinct footsteps across her ceiling, and in the narrow slit of hallway outside her door, where the stairs led up still another flight, the-ball-of-a-foot squeak! The sharp crack of a voice. Running.
On her very own ceiling the whisper of footsteps of restless comings and goings stealthy comings and goings and then after an hour, suddenly and ever so softly, the ball-of-a-foot squeak! The-ball-of-a-foot squeak! Marylin knew that step. And yet she sat, quiet. A star had come out.
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