From Chapter 31 of the novel:
Life continues to support Myra Breckinridge in all her schemes to obtain uniqueness. As I write this, Mary Ann is asleep in my bed (I have fixed up the daybed in here for myself). It is three in the morning. We have talked and wept together for five hours. I have never known such delight. Last night with Rusty was religious ecstasy; tonight a rebirth.
While I was writing in this notebook, there was a rap at the door. I opened it. Mary Ann stood in the doorway, pale and bedraggled and carrying a Pan Am overnight zipper bag. "Miss Myra, I've got to talk to you. You're the only person I can" With that she burst into tears and I took her in my arms, reveling in the full rounded warmth of that body, so reminiscent of the early Lana Turner. In a curious way, though she is so much younger and more vulnerable than I, she suggests a mother figure to me, which is madness since in our relationship I am, necessarily, the one who is wise, the one who is comfort and directs. I daresay the hatred of my own mother must have had some positive element in it since I am now able to feel genuine warmth for another woman, and a mere girl at that. I must discuss the matter thoroughly with Randolph.
Soon the sobbing ceased, and I poured her a glass of gin which she drank neat. This seemed to steady her.
"Rusty's gone again." She sat on the daybed, and blew her nose. Her legs are every bit as beautiful as Eleanor Powell's in the last reel of Rosalie, on those drums.
Hear Mary Ann response to Myra's comforting . . .
