She shook her head and Lucky poured just one drink. He downed it in a gulp and Jeanne-Marie told him, "Keep drinking like that and you're going to get drunk." He poured and drank another. "Don't I know it, baby. But they won't have any liquor where they want to send me, either. A man gets to appreciate--sure you don't want some?" "I'm positive, thank you." He's very matter-of-fact about it, Jeanne-Marie thought. He's as matter-of-fact about enjoying his liquor now as he is about killing me if I try to get away or about making love to me if I stay here. She looked at him. Lucky's altered behavior had not changed the fact that Lucky was an attractive hunk of man. And that's what she was here for, wasn't it? Romantic adventure. If in choosing the easy way out, she also satisfied a lifelong whim too.... What am I thinking about? she asked herself. It would satisfy him now and maybe afterwards, with the drink and everything, he'd even go to sleep and I'll be able to run somewhere for help. And anyway, it isn't me. It isn't my body. It isn't Mary-Jean. It's Jeanne-Marie. But there's no such person as Jeanne-Marie. Tomorrow, when I see the peddler at precisely four-fifteen back home.... If I see him, she thought wildly. Because I'm a prisoner now. She looked again at Lucky, who was drinking steadily now. Drinking hard. Drinking so he could forget the fact that it would be all but a physical assault if he got what he wanted. It's not Mary-Jean, it's Jeanne-Marie, she told herself again. But that didn't matter. All at once she knew it didn't matter at all. She would feel unclean all the rest of her life and she could never say an honest word of endearment again as long as she lived to her Tom, even if it did help her to escape. She shuddered at the thought. * * * * * "Come here," Lucky said. "Getting late now, so come here." His voice was thick and he took great care to enunciate each word distinctly. Jeanne-Marie got up slowly and went across the room to him. He got to his feet unsteadily, preparing to meet her halfway. He walked an exaggerated straight line, as if to prove how sober he was. "Come here," he said again, more thickly this time. She let him take her in his arms. She let him kiss her lips and her throat. That much, to allay his suspicions--and more. That much so she could apparently return his caresses while he surrendered drunkenly to the heat of the moment, while she.... Clutched at him wildly with her hands until he was used to the rather unexpected sensation of her clutching hands--then, still clutching but quite coldly and efficiently, searched his pocket for the cab-driver's ignition key. She found it and she said, breathlessly, "Lucky. I think I'll take that drink now, Lucky." He nodded, poured it and poured one for himself. "A toast," he said, "to--" He didn't finish. For Jeanne-Marie, smiling sweetly up at him, flung the contents of the glass in his face.