"I have no money," I said. Diamonds I had, a bagful of them, for we knew that huddlers treasured diamonds. But no money.
"I've got money," she said. "I've got a hell of a lot more money than I have sense. Have you ever been in love, Bogart?"
"Never," I said.
We were coming into a small huddled area, now. A sign read, Pacific Palisades.
"I have," she said. "I still am. Isn't it a miserable rotten world?"
"This one?" I asked, and then said quickly, "I mean—this part of it?"
"Any part of it," she said. "I've seen most of it, and any part where there's men is bad, Bogart."
"My name," I told her, "is not Bogart. My name is Fred Werig."
"A pleasure, Fred," she said. "My name is Jean Decker. And I'm beginning to feel better."
"It couldn't be my company," I said, "so it must be the air. I haven't seen any coffee places that are open."