Her lips were a thin, straight line. “Sometimes, you little devil, I hate the ground you walk on!”
“Aren’t you going to eat your chocolate bar?”
“You may have it.”
“I don’t want it. What’s the matter with it?”
“I don’t know. That other one gave me sort of heartburn. Have you had dinner, lover?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“Well, Mr. Whitewell suggested that we should eat together — that is, if you came back. He said,” and she let her mouth soften into the suggestion of a simper, “that he wanted his son to meet me. He seemed particularly anxious.”
“That’s nice.”
Knuckles tapped on the door.
“Open it, lover.”