Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Then for a time she sat very still.
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