Gurney said, “Sure.” He wandered outside and came back with a handful of wood. He sat down in front of the small stove and began to poke at the ashes.
Myra filled the kettle and began to lay the table. When the wood in the stove was crackling Gurney got up and put the kettle on. He walked round the room, scratching himself under the arms, yawning. His eyes were on Myra. She didn’t take any notice of him, but she could feel his lust for her.
He came up behind her, slipping his arms round her, his hands over her breasts. He hugged her to him.
Myra stood quite still. “Get away, will you?” she snapped. “There’s work to do.”
Gurney forced her round. “I’m sick of this,” he said savagely. “I ain’t goin’ to stand it.”
He lifted her off her feet and ran her into her room. Myra made no effort to resist him. In the room, he set her down, arid stood holding her, his chest heaving.
She said, “You’re gettin’ wrong ideas, Nick.”
“Yeah?” He shook her a little. “That’s what you think. You’re enough to drive a guy nuts…. What’s the idea? You’re hot enough when Butch might’ve killed you… but now…”
She kept her face cold. “The kettle’s boiling,” she said. “Suppose you come down to earth.”
Gurney took his hands off her. “By God!” he said angrily. “You can’t treat me like this.”