I don't suppose you know Gladys Gillespie of Sow Creek, Idaho do you?
"Do you remember Gladys Gillespie of Sow Creek, Idaho?" she asked.
It's a famous author named Miss Gladys Turnbull.
Gladys Turnbull wasn't just fat, she was immense.
As the Deans entered the hall Gladys Turnbull was waddling up the stairs.
I'll bet it's a collect call for Gladys Turnbull from the planet Draghow!
If that was Gladys Turnbull's alarm clock, I hope she gets it fixed.
There followed a cheery "good morning" from the late-sleeping Gladys Turnbull.
Gladys was dressed in a tiny skirt that made her look like a cheerleader for the Slim Fast "before" team.
All the time she was eating, Gladys prattled on about her magnificent dreams of the snow-covered landscape of faraway planets and the lustful urges of their alien inhabitants.
Edith Shipton sat nearby, long finished with her meal, oblivious to Gladys' tales.
As soon as Dean was alone with Gladys, between her second and third helping of Cynthia's pancakes, he broached the subject of the annoying alarm.
Gladys must have thought most of the world was deaf as she was quite surprised when Dean politely scolded her.
Gladys Turnbull was pounding away on a lap top computer in a corner of the parlor while young Martha and Donnie played a game of Old Maid on the sofa.
Left with nothing else to do, Dean turned to Gladys Turnbull, more out of inn-keeper politeness than a desire to engage this strange woman in lengthy conversation.
Donnie viewed the encounter with mild curiosity while Gladys remained in her chair, pudgy legs elevated, looking totally petrified.
Gladys had taken over as docent of the domain.
I'm Gladys Turnbull the author, and this is Donnie who can't speak, and Martha who lives in town.
The other guests were nowhere about—the children off playing hide and seek, Edith still closed in her room and Gladys dreaming of far off galaxies.
Far off in the distance, Dean could again hear the ringing of Gladys Turnbull's alarm but he paid it no attention.
Dean never even heard Gladys Turnbull's muffled alarm clock.
Even Gladys Turnbull's alarm must have been muffled enough not to disturb his slumber.
The three north-side second floor rooms contained Fred, Gladys Turnbull and a pretty female climber named Penny.
Dean bit his lip, assuming the little woman was about to complain about Gladys Turnbull's late night writing, but she had other concerns.
Edith, Effie, Claire and Gladys remained in their rooms.
Amid a banging door and stomping feet, Gladys Turnbull entered the kitchen.
Cynthia rose, and after a whispered conversation, Gladys left and Cynthia returned, a smile on her face.
"Gladys says they really got along great," Cynthia said, with a smile.
"I fear for that woman," Cynthia said as Edith squeezed by the descending elephantine shape of Gladys Turnbull.
She's playing 'let's pretend' even more seriously than Gladys and her alarm clock rendezvous.
Instead, he steered the conversation toward Gladys Turnbull, who was the only other occupant of the cozy room.
It didn't last long as it was within Gladys' frequent reach.
Edith stared straight ahead, looking as zonked as Gladys was well on her way to becoming.
Cynthia began to quietly cry out of sheer frustration while Gladys Turnbull snored loudly.
Dean sat a while longer, amid night sounds, the ticking clock, and the muffled ringing of Gladys Turnbull's alarm.
Gladys waddled down, her jaw set like a drill Sergeant, looking as if she'd like to spit in Jerome's coffee.
Gladys is happy as hell about Shipton's swan dive.
There's the boy's father, Ryland, Gladys Turnbull, Claire Quincy....
He heard Gladys' muffled alarm at least twice, and someone rummaging around the kitchen, all well before the light gave a hint of welcoming Sunday.
Gladys Turnbull was sleeping late, as usual.
Gladys Turnbull, wrapped in a scarlet robe, stuck her head in the room.