Myra Jean thought Sarabell Simmons was a pain in the neck. The minute Miss Simmons entered the church hall, Myra Jean felt her shoulders pulling up toward her ears as if to hide her face. Her jaw began to stiffen, a sure prediction of a headache. Her eyes fluttered around the room, looking for an escape. Her fingers tightened on the seam-ripper she was holding, her knuckles whitening like her clenched lips. Miss Simmons was no garden-variety busybody. She would just as soon insult you to your face as behind your back. Myra Jean sighed, resigned to being needled mercilessly.