“I don’t see what there is to be so cagey about,” she snapped. “And I don’t like your manners.”
“I’m not crazy about yours,” I said. “I didn’t ask to see you. You sent for me. I don’t mind your ritzing me or drinking your lunch out of a scotch bottle. I don’t mind your showing me your legs. They’re very swell legs and it’s a pleasure to make their acquaintance. I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. They’re pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter nights. But don’t waste your time trying to cross-examine me.”
[…]
“My God, you big dark handsome brute! I ought to throw a Buick at you.”
I snicked a match on my thumbnail and for once it lit. I puffed smoke into the air and waited.
Mirror, Mirror 