Room keys dance on the hooks behind him. Half the keys clatter to the floor. And the brush of his wide shoulder the other way sends the remainder clattering down to join them, crunching under his likely gigantic shoes.
You have just the one peanut butter cookie saved in a shirt pocket -- perhaps some bittersweet crumbs.
Defeated, for the moment, however sure only until you can somehow acquire more peanut butter cookies, you leave -- your eye lingering melodramatically on the back of Nigella's head. You explore Torquay.
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