James Bond got into the car behind Scaramanga and wondered whether to shoot the man now, in the back of the head-the old Gestapo-K.G.B. point of puncture. A mixture of reasons prevented him-the itch of curiosity, an inbuilt dislike of cold murder, the feeling that this was not the predestined moment, the likelihood that he would have to murder the chauffeur also-these, combined with the softness of the night and the fact that the sound system was now playing a good recording of one of his favourites, "After You've Gone," and that cicadas were singing from the lignum vitae tree, said no. But at that moment, as the car coasted down Love Lane towards the bright mercury of the sea, James Bond knew that he was not only disobeying orders, or at best dodging them, but also being a bloody fool.
???Obedience, and sometimes a Book;
'Is possible, sir.' The eyes, surely trained in investigation, held Bond's blandly. 'You wish for breakfast?' The menu was once again nudged forward.珑牾/コ 貣暈G?嗚顣U輈d┕)m儿TカH醅€戣5S呕m濛'侉+ }?樚p饽T叓摊狀kuY氿忹殎罴h夸s?寳[鏥锦?隩坬7&l﨨b0薑媵??Z蟶盖雯櫡襤筫+2
'What was it they said, Davy? Tell me again. I can't believe it.'