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kills you, doesn't it? You'd love to make me tell you. But you can't.
Kleps: Why not do the right thing? Just tell us where the girl is.
You know, I don't think I will. If you don't mind terribly.
Kleps: Is she OK?
Lovelace: Oh I wouldn't be too sure about that. Might
be running out of air about now. Poor little dear might be in quite some
distress. Just hoping against hope with all her sweet little heart that help
will come. Sad, isn't it? Really, really sad.
Kleps: You son of a bitch!
Lovelace: That, detective, is a fair and reasonable
evaluation of my true nature. I am by every civilized standard a sorry
miserable low-down son of a bitch. A son of a bitch with something you want.
Kleps: You're going to tell me
where she is.
Lovelace: Am I? I could have sworn I had expressed a
Kleps: Notice how quiet it is?
Lovelace: I'm sure our audience - behind that mirror -
Kleps: The audience had things to
Lovelace: Whatever do you mean?
Kleps: It gets really busy around
here. I'm thinking everybody else is off questioning other suspects. Or maybe
having lunch. Or a smoke.
Lovelace: What are you saying?
Kleps: It's just you and me. Just
you and me having this quiet little chat.
Kleps: Get up.
Kleps: Here. Need some help?
Lovelace: Get the hell away from me!
Kleps: That's it. Up you go!
Lovelace: Help! Somebody help me!
Kleps: Careful. You're starting to
sound like that little girl.
Lovelace: Stop! You're hurting me!
Kleps: Am I? Let me try the other
Lovelace: You'll never get away with this!
Kleps: Don't let's worry about me.
Let's worry about you. And that little girl. Now, I'm going to ask you one more
time: where is she?
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