He reflected, remembered San Francisco, and replied:
“Yes,” he said, “I s’pose so, mostly. But the parts where the folks try to be nice,” he added, vindictively, “are worse’n this and Inch.”
“Why?” she demanded, in surprise.
“Because,” he said, “they get too nice. They’re slush nice,” he explained it.
She mulled this.
“I saw a lady, once,” she said. “She got off at Inch to mail a letter. Her hair was combed pretty and she had her gloves on and her shoes fit her feet—I donno. She must of come from somewheres,” she added vaguely.
He was silent and she tried to be clear.
“She wasn’t good-dressed like Beautiful Kate and them,” she added anxiously. “She spoke nice, too. I heard her get a stamp from Leadpipe Pete. Her words come so—easy.”
He nodded.