Two nomadic old maids, dressed up to kill, worked acrimoniously through the bill of fare, whispering to each other with faded lips, wooden-faced and bizarre, like two sumptuous scarecrows.

A little wine opened Jim's heart and loosened his tongue.

His appetite was good, too, I noticed.

He seemed to have buried somewhere the opening episode of our acquaintance.

It was like a thing of which there would be no more question in this world.