Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon.

Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon.

I guess God made Boston on a wet Sunday.

You can have a hangover from other things than alcohol. I had one from women.

If you're not tough it's hard to survive in this world; and if you're not kind then you don't deserve to survive.

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark little clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.

He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and hit myself on the back of the head with the floor.