It's awfully easy to be in love in jail.

Murder doesn’t round out anybody’s life except the murdered’s and sometimes the murderer’s.

I told him about the letter Wynant had sent his sister. He said: “He writes a lot of people, don’t he?

It’s a long while since I burst out crying because policemen didn’t like me.

Nora stopped drinking to ask: “Did Wynant really steal it?” “Tch, tch, tch,” I said. “This is Christmas Eve: try to think good of your fellow man.

Presently she said: “It’s none of my business, Nick, but what do people think of me?” “You’re like everybody else: some people like you, some people don’t, and some have no feeling about it one way or the other.

It’s awfully easy to be in love in jail.

We believed your two hundred dollars.

Your playmates sent him?” I asked, nodding at the dead man. “I only talked to him with this,” he said, patting the automatic on the bed, “but I reckon they did.” “How did it happen?” “It happened simple enough. I heard the door opening, and I switched on the light, and there he was, and I shot him, and there he is.

I don’t,” he said, “and that’s a fact. I just can’t size them up at all. This Mrs. Jorgensen, now, what is she?” “A blonde.