Cora snatched up a glass of wine that the blond man had scarcely touched, and with one swift movement threw the wine in his face.
Somewhere in the building a bell began to ring. George was conscious of the bell more than he was conscious of the stillness of the blonde woman, the Hebrew and the waiter, although they were menacing enough. He was more scared of the hell than he was of the blond man, who sat staring at Cora, wine running down his face into his shirt and coat.
Then a concealed door half way down the room opened, and two men came into the restaurant. They looked like Greeks—hard little men with flat, squashed features, dressed in black, with black cloth caps on their bullet heads.
The blond man said in a drawling voice, “Well, you’ll certainly pay for that, you drunken bitch.”
George rushed to Cora’s side. He was sick with fright, but he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.
“Cora!” he said, taking her arm. “My God! Cora!”
He could feel her trembling, and he realized that she was as terrified as he was.
“Don’t let them do anything to me!” she said wildly, clinging to him “George! Get me out of here. Don’t let them touch me!”
This frantic appeal stiffened George’s courage. He pushed her behind him and faced the two Greeks.
“Now, don’t get excited,” he said, his voice sounding as if he had a pebble in his mouth. “I’m sorry about this… she didn’t know what she was doing…”