“They must be telephone numbers,” I said, taking the book from her. “Where were you raised? Fanning my baggage!”

“I was raised in a convent,” she told me. “I won the good behavior prize every year I was there. I thought little girls who put extra spoons of sugar in their chocolate went to hell for gluttony. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as profanity until I was eighteen. The first time I heard any I damned near fainted.” She spit on the rug in front of her, tilted her chair back, put her crossed feet on my bed, and asked: “What do you think of that?”

I pushed her feet off the bed and said:

“I was raised in a waterfront saloon. Keep your saliva off my floor or I’ll toss you out on your neck.”

“Let’s have another drink first. Listen, what’ll you give me for the inside story of how the boys didn’t lose anything building the City Hall⁠—the story that was in the papers I sold Donald Willsson?”