I shoulda hollered misdeal, all right.

I know it now." He pulled remorsefully at his wet mustache, which very much resembled a worn-out sharing brush.
Ford straightened up, dropped a hand upon his thigh, and thereby discovered another sore spot, which he caressed gently with his palm.
"Say, Bill, you were there, and you saw her.

On the square now--what's she like?
And what made me marry her ?" Bill pulled so hard upon his mustache that his teeth showed; his breath became unpleasantly audible with the stress of emotion.

"So help me, I can't tell you what she's like, Ford," he confessed.

"I don't remember nothing about her looks, except she looked good to me, and I never seen her before, and her hair wasn't red--I always remember red hair when I see it, drunk or sober.