It was only the Wabbit who was drawn into the picture. Sebby the Hat and Lapinette were pushed rudely to the side, but he found himself face to face with a woman with a direct stare. She was a smoke eater. The Wabbit knew this from twenties movies. His head was whirling. He heard a voice in his head telling him she had more curves than Passo Pordoi and the right number of navigable slopes. She fixed him with a steely gaze. "If you're some kind of forty niner, Mr Rabbit, I can inform you I'm no tomato." She threw him a look that was meant to make him roll over with his paws in the air. She sounded as half cut as her hair. His head twirled the other way. Another voice came into his head. He twisted his mouth into a wry smile and heard himself say, "You might be the cat's pyjamas, but I'm the big cheese. You won't get a handcuff from me unless you got plenty of hush money." A puff from her cigarette enveloped his head in a cloud of smoke. The smell of her breath was peaty, like an Islay whisky distillery. She looked closely at the Wabbit. "You're old father time," she breathed. "I think I'll sit this one out." She was fading from view. The Wabbit fell from the picture like a brick and into Lapinette's outstretched paws. She whispered in his ears. "Did you like the lines I gave you?" The Wabbit considered. "As much as chalk and cheese." "But did you like her?" she murmured. The Wabbit shrugged. "Like applause at the end of a show or ... a like on Facebook."
