"Can you beat it?" Billy murmured. "When I think of that
six-dollar furnished room of mine, it makes me sick to think what
I was missin' all the time. But there's one satisfaction. If I'd
changed it sooner I wouldn't a-had you. You see, I didn't know
you existed only until a couple of weeks ago."

His hand crept along her bare forearm and up and partly under the
elbow-sleeve.

"Your skin's so cool," he said. "It ain't cold; it's cool. It
feels good to the hand."

"Pretty soon you'll be calling me your cold-storage baby," she
laughed.

"And your voice is cool," he went on. "It gives me the feeling
just as your hand does when you rest it on my forehead. It's
funny. I can't explain it. But your voice just goes all through
me, cool and fine. It's like a wind of coolness--just right. It's
like the first of the sea-breeze settin' in in the afternoon
after a scorchin' hot morning. An' sometimes, when you talk low,
it sounds round and sweet like the 'cello in the Macdonough
Theater orchestra. And it never goes high up, or sharp, or
squeaky, or scratchy, like some women's voices when they're mad,
or fresh, or excited, till they remind me of a bum phonograph
record. Why, your voice, it just goes through me till I'm all
trembling--like with the everlastin' cool of it. It's it's
straight delicious. I guess angels in heaven, if they is any,
must have voices like that."