"Are you done yet?" Andrew Locke's tone was harsh, laced with suppressed rage. His deep, magnetic, raspy voice rose abruptly, carrying a certain oppressiveness.
"I don't know," Nora Hart gasped, her hand, which had been on his neck, slowly withdrew. Andrew Locke was like walking poison; once involved with him, you'd wish to be poisoned to death immediately.
The man withdrew his body, suppressing his anger: "Go check."
Nora Hart worried it was Sheila Wendy confusing the crew, sat up straight, tidied up her loose clothes a bit, slipped on her shoes, and headed for the door. She had just reached the entrance when her hand landed on the doorknob.
Outside, a clamor erupted: "Nora Hart, I know you're in there, have the guts to open the door, why play the turtle? Brave enough to act but not to open the door, aren't you? Do you believe I'll smash your door in?"