"Will you have a drink, James?" Pam asked him.
At the sight of that ominous bag, so full of deadly inertness and possibility, her heart had thumped her like a stone in a box. Yes or no; yes or no; yes or no?
"What of?" James asked her straightway.
"Of ... of ... what would you like?"
"Nay ... 'appen ah 'm best wi'oot," James decided, a great mantle of modesty falling over him at this suggestion of choice.
"Not if you want one, you 're not," Pam said.
Her fingers were burning, and her heart was dreading the opening of the bag. Was there? Was n't there? Was there? Was n't there? She put her hand to her side again. James only thought she slackened the grip of her belt.
"Ah could do wi' un," he admitted reluctantly, "so far as that gans."
"Milk ... would you like?" Pam suggested.
"Nay ... ah mun't mix 'em," he declared oracularly, and licked his parched lips with a smack of apprehension.