The Thin Man

by Dashiell Hammett

She stared at her glass while saying, “He’s my father. I never liked him. I never liked Mamma.” She looked up at me. “I don’t like Gilbert.” Gilbert was her brother. “Don’t let that worry you. Lots of people don’t like their relatives.” “Do you like them?”

“But besides I haven’t the time: I’m too busy trying to see that you don’t lose any of the money I married you for.”

“I don’t understand. Do you hate her?” “Not as a rule.” “Now?” “I don’t think so. She’s being stupid and she’s sure she’s being very clever, and that’s a nuisance, but I don’t think I hate her.”

“Was Flint right in saying you didn’t get a chance to hunt for your paper?” I asked the boy. “Yes. I hadn’t even had time to shut the door when he ran at me.” “They’re grand detectives I got working for me,” Guild growled. “Didn’t he yell, ‘Boo!’ when he jumped out at you?

She laughed. “All right, all right. Still want to leave for San Francisco tomorrow?” “Not unless you’re in a hurry. Let’s stick around awhile. This excitement has put us behind in our drinking.”