the daily prose poem I do for the syndicate, for which I get twenty-five beans. This is the motif:
‘When your pocket is under-moneyed and your fancy is over-girled, you’ll have to admit while you’re cursing it, it’s a mighty darned good old world.’
Bang, bang!”
He threw his cigar-end savagely into the fireplace. He knew that Rosamond detested his editorials and his jingles. She had fastidious taste in literature, like her mother—though he didn’t think she had half the general intelligence of his wife. She also, now that she was Tom Outland’s heir, detested to hear sums of money mentioned, especially small sums.
After the good nights were said, and they were outside the front door, McGregor seized his wife’s elbow and rushed her down the walk to the gate where his Ford was parked, breaking out in her ear as they ran:
“Now what the hell is a virtual widow? Does he mean a virtuous widow, or the reverseous? Bang, bang!”