"Th-that garment—" The little guy is starin' at the robe LaTour is holdin' over the better parts of her. "That white robe—where did you get it?" he sorta wheezed.
"This? Oh, this old thing. It's just part of my old wardrobe. The guy I married gave it to me."
"You—what?" Luigi's puss turns from purple to pale white. "You ain't married?"
"Oh, no?" LaTour looks at him like he's a Venusian rainworm, and the lug goes inta another Technicolor trance.
"But I'm gettin' fed up already," she yawns. "I met a fella's got a lot more S.A. than the guy I'm hitched to now. Yeah," she giggles, "My new fella knows how to appreciate a gal. Why, he even judged a beauty contest once."
"You take that jet line to Atlantic City, baby?" Luigi says.
The LaTour laughs, and catches the little guy's eye. "Professor, tell this jerk here what I'm talkin' about."
The little guy nods. "So that's why you didn't come back," he says.
"Yeah. I been promised to my new fella, and I ain't one to break a promise."
"The apple of discord," the little guy is mutterin'. "'Twas ever thus, my dear. But why are you here now?"