She felt an icy chill pass over her and a premonition that something terrible was about to happen. She jumped out of bed, slipped into a skirt and sweater and ran into the living room. She wanted to be with Frankie, be where she could see him.

When she appeared in the doorway of the living room, Frankie was standing on the other side of the room, his hands thrust into the pockets of his bathrobe, his head to one side, a thin thread of blue smoke drifting up to one side of his head where his cigarette was dangling. His eyes were half closed and he was staring coldly at Gypsy who was standing directly in front of him, but with her back to her. She was swaying slightly from side to side, obviously in a drunken stupor.

Cynthia paused in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, listening to what Gypsy was saying.

"But you've got to believe me, Frankie. You've just got to! Its the truth. It is! Honest, it is!" Her voice was high, pleading, tense and full of insistent passion. She reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his bathrobe, imploring him to listen to her.

He shrugged her hand away and said coolly, "Why don't you just get the hell out of here? I've heard this story so damn many times that you're getting worse each time you repeat it. So why not pack up and blow!" He took a menacing step toward her and she moved back, tripping over her own feet. "What in the name of God do I have to do to shut you up? Kill you!"

She clutched his arm again, stumbling and falling down on her knees in front of him, putting her arms around his legs and sobbing, "Frankie, I love you so. Please believe me and come away with me before its too late."