"All men aren't like you," I said slyly. "Some few of them do like me."
He took that in as if it hurt him.
"He's in Cuba, you say?"
I nodded.
"You hear from him?"
"Yes."
"Where are his letters?"
I couldn't show him the letters, I said. So then he tried to free himself from my hand, but he couldn't; I held so tightly.
"It wouldn't be square to Dick to show you his letters," I said.
"So it's 'Dick,' is it?" he sneered.