"See here! You give me the creeps. Do you know it?"
"How?"
"Well, you saw that guy I was with at the Blitz."
"Looked like a rich fathead."
"Yes; but you know he's a rich fathead. He's as clear as a glass of water. You're like"—she paused for a simile—"you're like something that might be a cocktail—and might be a dose of poison." She turned on me with a new flash in her blue eyes. "Look here! Tell me honest, now. Are you a swell crook—or ain't you?"
She turned on me with a new flash in her blue eyes. "Look here! Tell me honest, now. Are you a swell crook—or ain't you?" "Suppose I say that—that I ain't." "Say, kid!" she responded, coldly, "talk like yourself, will you? ... If you're not a swell crook I can't make you out.
"Suppose I say that—that I ain't."
"Say, kid!" she responded, coldly, "talk like yourself, will you?" She threw her hands apart, palms outward. "Well, if you're not a swell crook I can't make you out."
"But as a swell crook you could. Is that it?"