About an hour after dinner Rory sauntered into the kitchen to have an interview with Lydia. Her sharp look of inquiry as he crossed the threshold of her domain was not encouraging, nor was the extra vim she suddenly put into her work an indication of an amiable frame of mind. She was standing at a side table cleaning knives, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her blouse unhooked at the neck, and her hair tossed and frousy. Two young gins, Lydia's offsiders, were sitting at another table, gorging themselves with plum pudding. Rory propped himself alongside Lydia, with his hands in his pockets.
"I want to ask you a question, Lydia" he began, watching the rapid motion of the knife in her hand.
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