“Maybe one won’t be missed, but you’ll tip our mitts if you take more than that.”
“Damn your mitts,” she grumbled, but she took only one blanket.
I blew out the lamp, padlocked the door behind us, and with the help of the flashlight picked a way through the undergrowth.
On the hillside above we found a little hollow from which road and shack could be not too dimly seen through foliage thick enough to hide us unless we showed a light.
I spread the blanket there and we settled down.
The girl leaned against me and complained that the ground was damp, that she was cold in spite of her fur coat, that she had a cramp in her leg, and that she wanted a cigarette.
I gave her another drink from the flask. That bought me ten minutes of peace.
Then she said:
“I’m catching cold. By the time anybody comes, if they ever do, I’ll be sneezing and coughing loud enough to be heard in the city.”
“Just once,” I told her. “Then you’ll be all strangled.”
“There’s a mouse or something crawling under the blanket.”
“Probably only a snake.”
“Are you married?”
“Don’t start that.”
“Then you are?”