“Now see here, Guy,” said the voice, “you’re not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger pumping morons with low hair-lines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we’re a couple of intelligent caring guys that you’d probably quite like if you met us socially! I don’t go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterward in seedy space-rangers bars, like some cops I could mention! I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterward for hours to my girlfriend!”“And I write novels!” chimed in the other cop. “Though I haven’t had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I’m in a meeeean mood!”

“Rick said, "Is there some place we can go and talk?""You want to talk?," Keir raised an eyebrow. "I never thought I'd see the day.""Nah, I want to tell you this joke I heard."Keir nodded, patient. "Shoot.""Two Irish cops walk into a bar. The first cop says..." Rick's voice dropped. He said gruffly, "I love you. Come home."Keir managed to keep his voice steady. "What's the other cop say?"The sweetness of Rick's smile was like a kick in his chest. "That's what I'm here to find out, boyo.”

“I love it here in Boston and I love studying medicine. Butit’s not home. Dublin is home. Being back with you felt like home. I miss mybest friend.I’ve met some great guys here, but I didn’t grow up with any of themplaying cops and robbers in my back garden. I don’t feel like they are realfriends. I haven’t kicked them in the shins, stayed up all night on Santawatch with them, hung from trees pretending to be monkeys, played hotel,or laughed my heart out as their stomachs were pumped. It’s kind of hard tobeat that.”

“I’m quite aware of what I am, Kit. I know how people look at me. I’m the guy you see in some bar, being loud and obnoxious. I’m the jock at your college, throwing a basketball onto your desk as you’re trying to study. I know I am. But I want more than that now. I’m too old to be playing games any more.”

“But what I don’t like — and what I don’t think either Seymour or Buddy would like, either, as a matter of fact — is the way you talk about all these people. I mean you don’t just despise what they represent — you despise them. It’s too damn personal, Franny. I mean it. You get a real little homicidal glint in your eye when you talk about this Tupper, for instance. All this business about his going into the men’s room to muss his hair before he comes in to class. All that. He probably does — it goes with everything else you’ve told me about him. I’m not saying it doesn’t. But it’s none of your business, buddy, what he does with his hair. It would be all right, in a way, if you thought his personal affectations were sort of funny. Or if you felt a tiny bit sorry for him for being insecure enough to give himself a little pathetic goddam glamour. But when you tell me about it — and I’m not fooling, now — you tell me about it as though his hair was a goddamn personal enemy of yours. That is not right — and you know it. If you’re going to to war against the System, just do your shooting like a nice, intelligent girl — because the enemy’s there, and not because you don’t like his hairdo or his goddam necktie.”

“That's what I look at some people for. I like to know about them. I think them over afterward.”