stood there； feeling； rather than hearing； the echo of George's Adidas in the
empty hall。 Still in the grip of his temper and his shame at mocking George's
stutter； his first thought had been a sick sort of exultation： For the first
time in his life George Hatfield had wanted something he could not have。 For the
first time there was something wrong that all of Daddy's money could not fix。
You couldn't bribe a speech center。 You couldn't offer a tongue an extra fifty a
week and a bonus at Christmas if it would agree to stop flapping like a record
needle in a defective groove。 Then the exultation was simply buried in shame；
and he felt the way he had after he had broken Danny's arm。
Dear God； I am not a son of a bitch。 Please。
That sick happiness at George's retreat was more typical of Denker in the play
than of Jack Torrance the playwright。
You hate me because you know 。。。
Because he knew what？
What could he possibly know about George Hatfield that would make him hate
him？ That his whole future lay ahead of him？ That he looked a little bit like
Robert Redford and all conversation among the girls stopped when he did a double
gainer from the pool diving board？ That he played soccer and baseball with a
natural； unlearned grace？
Ridiculous。 Absolutely absurd。 He envied George Hatfield nothing。 If the truth
was known； he felt worse about George's unfortunate stutter than George himself；
because George really would have made an excellent debater。 And if Jack had set
the timer ahead — and of course he hadn't — it would have been because both he and
the other members of the squad were embarrassed for George's str