He shoved her hard, yes, but nothing like the wallop she affected to draw attention, and there had been no clout nearly strong enough to send her halfway down the row of putters on display and for sale against the pro shop wall. He felt she deserved whatever he had handed out, because when she chose the moment she did to strip down to black panties and bra, that was all it had taken to distract his attention from his patient scouting and tracking of signs and clues he believed would surely lead to an Orange Honduran caterpillar. For before the girl’s interruption, he thought he had been zeroing in on one along a lower branch of a tree that borders the country club parking lot, but now, as his attention re-coalesced and he resumed the goal of getting a photograph of his quest—as his concentration came back to where it never should have wavered in the first place—the rare, rare bug was nowhere in sight, and nor were there any new or additional indicators. Oh, he continued looking hither and yon a good twenty minutes or so, even charging into the pro shop at one point and getting physically angry again with the worthless girl who was taking shelter there and trying to win some sympathy from a clerk or two, but nothing was to any avail: the Orange Honduran seemed gone for good.
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