“Don’t you leave that man alone with me for as much as one second!” the girl said.
Lowry nodded, surveying me appraisingly with eyes that glittered from over high cheek-bones which had been permanently swollen by the impact of fists during a pugilistic career.
I said, “I didn’t kill her.”
“I know,” Lowry said, grinning. “She kissed you and then, all of a sudden she was possessed by an overpowering impulse, and grabbed up one of her stockings, wrapped it round her neck and choked herself to death. You watched in horrid fascination, powerless to stop her. I know just how it was, buddy.”
The redhead said, “If you let that man even get close to me, Sam Lowry, I’ll kill you.”
“Don’t worry, Babe,” Lowry said, “he isn’t going to get close to you. Watch that ham. You’re burning the hell out of it.”
“You do your own cooking,” she said, “I can’t.”
“You go ahead and cook the ham,” he told her, “I’m going to keep an eye on this bird. If you don’t do a good job with that cooking, I’ll walk out and leave you two alone.”
The threat was enough. She grabbed a fork, lifted the ham out of the frying pan.
“Now pour in some water, some milk and a little thickening, and make some gravy,” Lowry said.