"It's not my stomach," Marc said. "I just hope I don't start floating away from you. It could happen, you know." He glanced at her chains. "Do you feel any slack around your wrists at all?"
"Not yet," Toffee said. "Keep trying."
The rain outside continued with a steady monotony and grew louder. It was impossible to judge the passage of time. Hours dragged by, enough, it seemed, to round out several days. Toffee and Marc continued their efforts with the chains, but with a growing sense of futility.
"It's no use," Marc said. "My fingers are raw."
"We've got to keep trying," Toffee said.
Then suddenly they both were quiet as the sound of nearby yawning interrupted the stillness. It had the thoughtless, indolent tone of George about it. They turned expectant eyes toward the scaffolding.
Slowly, George faded into view, materializing himself with slow luxury. He yawned a second time and stretched his arms above his head. Then he glanced in their direction and waved with airy insolence.
"That's a clubby picture you two make," he commented. "Spending your last hours in romantic rapture."
"Louse!" Toffee said. "I'd like to see you spend yours in intolerable agony."
"How can you bear me such ill will?" George asked innocently. "Didn't I let you loose last night?"