“I don’t know whether I do or not.”
“Get this, then; she isn’t all over paint; she’s got freckles, thank God, and she smells sweet as a daisy field. Ah, what the hell––” he burst out between his parted teeth “—when every woman in New York smells like a chorus girl! Don’t I get it all day? The whole city stinks like a star’s dressing room. And I married one! And I’m through. I want to get my breath and I’m getting it.”
Stull’s white features betrayed merely the morbid suffering of indigestion; he said nothing and sucked his cigar.
“I’m through,” repeated Brandes. “I want a home and a wife—the kind that even a fly cop won’t pinch on sight—the kind of little thing that’s over there in that old shack. Whatever I am, I don’t want a wife like me—nor kids, either.”
Stull remained sullenly unresponsive.
“Call her a hick if you like. All right, I want that kind.”
No comment from Stull, who was looking at the wrecked car.
“Understand, Ben?”
“I tell you I don’t know whether I do or not!”
“Well, what don’t you understand?”