"Don't lean on me. I'm no wailing wall. What's it to me all your highfaluting talk. You've been as slab-sided in the pockets as a cat all month. Don't have to stand it. I've got friends—spenders—"
There had been atrocious scenes, based on his jealousies of her, which some imp in her would lead her to provoke, notwithstanding that even as she spoke she regretted, and reached back for the words,
"I mean—"
"I know what you mean," he said, quietly, permitting her to lie back against him and baring his teeth down at her.
She actually thought he was smiling.
"I'm not a dead one by a long shot," she said, kindling with what was probably her desire to excite him.
"No?"
"No. I can still have the best. The very best. If you want to know it, a political Indian with a car as long as this room, not mentioning any names, is after me—"
She still harbored the unfortunate delusion that he was smiling.
"You thought I was up at Ossining this morning, didn't you?" he asked, lazily for him. He went there occasionally to visit a friend in the state prison who had once served him well in a gambling raid and was now doing a short larceny term there.