“I’m telling you what Mrs. Willsson told Noonan and me.”

The girl spit what was left of the lemon peel out on the floor, further disarranged her hair by running her fingers through it, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and slapped the table.

“All right, Mr. Knowitall,” she said, “I’m going to play with you. You can think it’s not going to cost you anything, but I’ll get mine before we’re through. You think I won’t?” she challenged me, peering at me as if I were a block away.

This was no time to revive the money argument, so I said: “I hope you do.” I think I said it three or four times, quite earnestly.