Edgar Wallace

“ No harm was meant—the initiated were explaining her to the stranger in their midst. There was almost a hint of pride in the voice, as though credit was reflected on Flanders Lane by a convict's sister walking through. They were loud-mouthed because they could not be otherwise; millions were spent yearly to teach them the date of William the Conqueror's arrival and the past participle of the verb To Be, but nobody had spent a cent in teaching them how to talk. ”

“ Say, do you want to see Meister in the morgue? Because that's where he's going if you don't help me. And listen,honey: maybe I'm a little too abrupt with you, and I've got you mad. The man I want to keep track of is a sick-looking fellow with——"
Mary shook her head. ”

“ You work for Meister—that's why I'm here. Meister has certainly a mean taste." (Mary gathered that this was a compliment and that the "mean" was employed in an ironic sense.) "Do you see all his visitors, young lady?"
The girl's patience was now exhausted.
"I absolutely refuse to discuss Mr. Meister's business either," she said. "A woman of your intelligence should have better taste than to question an employee——"
"Listen!" Mrs. Milton jerked her lithe body upright. "I guess I'd better tell you something. ”

“ Lighting the gas-stove, she put on the big kettle. There was laundry work to do; a blouse or two, handkerchiefs and collars. Ordinarily she would have looked forward to the occupation, but now she was tired.
Johnny's portrait was on the mantel-shelf of her bedroom. She picked it up when she went in to get the wash. A nice-looking man of thirty. The mouth a little weak, the eyes dour and sceptical. ”