I’m fifty-three years old, I thought, I’ve been alone most of my life. What the hell do I want to think about togetherness for?
But the answer to that was obvious, even to a slow type like me. It was that which made the world go round, the many-splendored thing, the thing that created babies and dreams and happiness-and lots of heartaches too. Fifty-three years old and in love again, in love for real. Well, if that wasn’t the damnedest thing. If that wasn’t the silliest damn thing for an old lone wolf.
Right, Mr. Marlowe?
You bet, Mr. Spade.
When Kerry came back, I had a funny feeling I was going to ask her to marry me….