diamonds and hand-painted socks.

"First good show I'd seen in three years, and naturally humour broke
out all over me. When joy spreads its wings in my vitals, I sound
like a boy with a stick running past a picket-fence. Not so Morrow.
He slopped over the sides of his seat, like he'd been spilled into
the house.

"Right after the sea-lions, the orchestra spieled some teetery music,
and out floats a woman, slim and graceful as an antelope. She had a
big pay-dump of brown hair, piled up on her hurricane deck, with eyes
that snapped and crinkled at the corners. She single-footed in like
a derby colt, and the somnambulists in the front row begin to show
cause. Something about her startled me, so I nudged the kid, but he
was chin-deep in the plush, with his eyes closed. I marked how
drawed and haggard he looked; and then, of a sudden he raised half on
to his feet. The girl had begun to sing. Her voice was rich and
low, and full of deep, still places, like a mountain stream. But
Morrow! He sunk his fingers into me, and leaned for'rad, starin' as
though Paradise had opened for him, while the sweat on his face shone
like diamond chips.

"It was the girl of the locket, all right, on the stage again--in
vaudeville.

"Her song bubbled along, rippling over sandy, sunlit gravel bars, and
slidin' out through shadowy trout pools beneath the cool, alder
thickets, and all the time my pardner sat burning his soul in his
eyes, his breath achin' out through his throat. Incidental, his
digits was knuckle-deep into the muscular tissue of William P., the