Inger Lint rants and raves around the room. "SHE'S GOING TO TELL," this, "EVERYONE WILL KNOW," that, "AND THEN WHERE WILL WE BE," "IT'LL BE KRAUTS FROM FLOOR TO CEILING AROUND HERE, MARK MY WORDS."
"I wouldn't tell the Krauts, ma'am, I assure you."

"But you'd tell the newspaper you work for. What you've found here is a huge scoop, isn't it?"
"I am bound by certain rules of my trade, you know, as I'm sure you are. If you tell me our conversation is off-the-record, or a government secret, then I couldn't possibly print it, no matter how much I might want to, or my editor might ask me."
"IT SURELY CAN'T BE THAT EASY."
"Your editor wouldn't mind?"
"If his own mother told me a secret about him off-the-record, he wouldn't want me to tell him."

"I SAY WE KILL HER, KILL HER, KILL HER," Inger Lint rages.
"Colleagues who are easy to work with? I truly can not imagine what that might be like."