"In detail," Toffee said. She turned to Marc. "Isn't it nice to meet a girl who knows her own mind—even when it's cracked seven ways to Sunday?"
"You should know," Marc glowered. "You should damned well know, you little heller."
Congressman Bloodsop's study was a mammoth vault paneled solidly with the finest oak that purloined money could buy. It was vast-ceilinged and set solidly at one end with leaded windows of a thousand panes. Beyond the windows, like a magazine illustration, one could see formal gardens softened with twilight. To Toffee's mind it fairly stank with class.
From the depths of her leather-covered chair, she lowered her coffee cup to the table and observed the spectacle of Congressman Bloodsop sitting like a high magistrate behind a kennel-sized mahogany desk.
"Do the guards have to stay outside in the hallway?" she asked. "Won't they be lonesome?"
"A matter of form, dear," the congressman said. "Looks good. Besides, I've told the maid to give them tea."
Marc standing beside the fireplace stirred with agitation. "Mr. Bloodsop...!"
The congressman raised his eyes with slow patience. "Young man," he said evenly. "Is there something the matter with you? What is this curious compulsion of yours to rasp my name every few minutes? If you have something to say, say it."
"Yes, Marc," Toffee said sweetly. "Don't let the congressman think you're dull."