“I was neat, clean, shaved and sober and I didn't care who knew it.”

“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.”

“It seemed that I performed better sober than drunk. Who knew?”

“Paul went to his room, gathered clean clothes and headed down the hall to the shower. He made it quick, but clean. He shaved. Then he thought, I am shaving—why? To be smooth cheeked when I pass out?”

“I didn't care who we were. I required no consummation. I knew that whoever we were and whatever we had would never stop.”

“I had a hunger for things I knew realistically I didn't actually care for.”