He wants four kinds of jam on the table every meal, when fresh fruit is going to waste.

He's bullied the laundryman until the poor fellow's reached the point where he won't stop if the car's parked in front and Casey's liable to be home; but aside from that, Casey's all right.
"After serving time in the desert and rustling my own wood and living on bacon and beans and sour-dough bread, I'm perfectly willing to spend the rest of my life doing painless housekeeping with all the modern built-in features ever invented; and buying my bread and cakes and salads from the delicatessen around the corner.

I never want to see a sagebush again as long as I live, or feel the crunch of gravel under my feet.

I expect to die in French-heeled pumps and embroidered silk stockings and the finest, silliest silk things ever put in a show window to tempt the soul of a woman.

But it took just two weeks and three days to drive Casey back to his sour-dough can." "He craved luxury more than you seemed to do," I remembered aloud.
"He did, yes.