"Frank," she said, "you should see that place in there. There are foaming acid baths, great whale-toothed disposals, barrels of chemicals to quench death and smother decay. It's perfect."
"It sounds carnal," he said uneasily.
"No, dear, it's perfect for some things that have to be done."
Her eyes flashed around the doctor's office and settled somewhere, on something.
Linton followed the direction of Greta's gaze and found only an ashtray stand, looking vaguely like a fanatic's idol to a heathen religion on a pedestal.
Greta pounced on the stand, hefted it at the base and ran toward him with it over her head.
Linton leaped aside and Greta hit the edge of the desk instead of him.
Brain damage, he concluded nervously. Cell deterioration.
Greta raised it again and he caught her wrists high over her head. She writhed against him provocatively. "Frank, I'm sorry, dear, but I have to have that insurance money. It's hell!"