He'd sell off the furniture and turn the house over to the agent again, and Marie could whistle for a home.
She had been darn glad to get into that house, he remembered, and away from that old cat of a mother.

Let her stay there now till she was darn good and sick of it.

He'd just keep her guessing for awhile; a week or so would do her good.

Well, he wouldn't sell the furniture--he'd just move it into another house, and give her a darn good scare.

He'd get a better one, that had a porcelain bathtub instead of a zinc one, and a better porch, where the kid could be out in the sun.