"Don't give me that." Gazing down at him, she marveled at how far he'd come from the stumblebum she'd rescued. He was a still a good looking man at what—fifty eight?—despite the abuse his body had taken over God only knew how many years. "You had a quick enough tongue as Sarah," he said. "But now that you're Sally, you're reverting, turning inward again." Solo ambled into the room, crawled onto Frank's chest and settled down to purr. "You can't be all bad if cats like you," she said, still avoiding his question. "Too bad you didn't own a cat when you were almost twenty," he shot back. "You were all bad then," she blurted. He half-smiled. "And I'm not now? How do you know?" "I'm not a skinny kid any longer. I've put on a few years and a few pounds since then." "But not a few more smarts. Didn't it occur to you that my tastes might have changed, too?" She leaned over to glare down at him. "You're baiting me. Just like you always did." He laughed and sat up, disturbing Solo, who shot him an indignant look and stalked off.
