"What sort of a rose, Gina? What sort did you say?"
"I didn't say, Billy. I don't even know the name of it. But it's a yellow rose; almost gold. And its center is pink and—and scarlet."
For a moment they were silent.
"Did you see this—this woman, Gina—often?"
"Oh, once or twice, Billy."
"When, Gina?"
"In the evenings; each time."
"Where was she, Gina?"
"Why, how strange you are, Billy."
"Where, Gina? Tell me, d'you hear—tell me—where?"