“They call me the Angel of Death.”

“They call me the Angel of Death.That’s because I ain’t never lost a fight.”

“Like what you see,Angel? he says.You ain't my type”

“Be careful, Angel, he says. When you stare at a man like that, he’s likely to git any number of number of … innerestin ideas.”

“Believe it or not, missy, back in my salad days, I was what we called a gay blade, he says. Had a fine manly figger. I had dash an charm an... oh, I was devilish handsome, no word of a lie. Females flocked to me, helpless moths to my deadly flame. There you go, says Em. You jest need to scrub up some.”

“Travelling men make wide detours just to be in the same room as her. That's the most that even the best of of them can hope for. Molly Pratt, he says. Remind me, what's a heavenly creature like you doin in a dump like this? Servin rotgut to scoundrels like you, she says. An if you call my place a dump again, I'll bar you.”

“Like what you see, Angel? He saysI step to the fence. Hook my hands into the links, next to his. I lean in close. He's got tiny white lines around his eyes from squintin. Or maybe smilin. He smells of warm dust an sage.You ain't my type, I says”