She put food into her mouth with her fingers, spilling some on the way, opening her mouth wide and extending her tongue to receive it. She bumped her sleeve or her elbow into the dishes, almost upsetting some things, knocking over others. When the waiter removed the plates and cleaned the table before dessert, her place was covered with bits and smears of food.
She carried on a monologue of self-praise and justification. She would say something, and then, "Nancy, am I right?" Then she would stare at me, her pointed, witchy chin down and looking up and sideways at me, while her mouth worked, her tongue feeling between her teeth for food. I could hardly look at her, I must have sounded insincere, but she was drunk and did not notice.
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