He takes just one step toward the doorway of the little sitting room—he's hungry, and there may be something in the cramped little kitchen's cupboards to raid; or maybe he'll just go to prove the point that he isn't anxious, and as if he isn't reliant on what Rutyer does or doesn't ask for and does or doesn't tell him. But the envelope successfully hooks and stalls him. Stood there, half twisted round, Ralston judges first it and then Rutyer with an impatient twist of his mouth.

The record player's needle bumps off the end of it's track and cedes to whisper soft scratching as Ralston snatches the envelope off him. He tears promptly into it.