The more I argued with her, the better I came to know her dialectic. First she counted on the stupidity of her anti, and then, when there was no way out, she herself simply played stupid. If all this didn't help, she pretended not to understand, or, if challenged, she changed the subject in a hurry, it's just having a bit of fun, which if you accepted it she immediately related to entirely different matters, and then, if again attacked, gave ground and pretended not to know exactly what you were talking about.
Whenever you tried to attack her, your hand closed on a jelly-like slime which divided up and poured through your fingers, but in the next moment collected again. But if you really struck her friends such as Connor so telling a blow that, observed by her audience, she couldn't help but seethe, and if you believed that this had taken you at least one step forward, your amazement was great the next day. The Wigger had not the slightest recollection of the day before, she rattled of her same old nonsense as though nothing at all happened, and, if indignantly challenged, affected amazement; she couldn't remember a thing, except that she had proved the correctness of her assertions the previous day.
Sometimes I stood there thunderstruck. I didn't know what to be mpre amazed at: the agility of her tounge or her virtuosity at lying. Gradually I began to hate her.
