Now, young man, if you're through, I am.

I've got to get my work done." Pickert tilted his hat to the other side of his bullet head, felt in his side pocket for a cigar, bit off the end, and spat the crumbs of tobacco from his lips.
"You could put me on to the mantilla, couldn't you ?--spot it for me once I come across it ?" "Of course I could, the minute I clapped my eyes on it." "It's a kind of lace shawl, ain't it ?" "Yes.

All black--a big one with a frill around it and a tear in one side--that's what she was mending.

A good piece, I should think, because it was so fine and silky.

You could squash it up in one hand, it was that soft.