dine on olives, though. You have 'em for breakfast, luncheon, dinner,
and everything! I'm sick of olives, I tell you, Margaret!" Margaret
pouted.
"They ain't even good olives. I looked into one of that fellow
Charteris's books the other day--that chap you had here last week.
It was bally rot--proverbs standing on their heads and grinning
like dwarfs in a condemned street-fair! Who wants to be told that
impropriety is the spice of life and that a roving eye gathers
remorse?
You