“Six months or more.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“I don’t know.” Sullenly: “Travels maybe.”
“How many in the family?”
“Just him and her, and they’re nice quiet people, too.”
“What does he look like?”
“Like an ordinary man. I ain’t a detective. I don’t go ’round snoopin’ into folks’ faces to see what they look like, and prying into their business. I ain’t—”
“How old a man is he?”
“Maybe between thirty-five and forty, if he ain’t younger or older.”
“Large or small?”
“He ain’t as short as you, and he ain’t as tall as this feller with you,” glaring scornfully from my short stoutness to Dean’s big bulk, “and he ain’t as fat as neither of you.”
“Mustache?”
“No.”
“Light hair?”
“No.” Triumphantly: “Dark.”
“Dark eyes, too?”
“I guess so.”