They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.

I like France, where everybody thinks he's Napoleon--down here everybody thinks he's Christ.

I talk. Jim runs. I tilt stones, Jim grabs the cold junk under the stones and -lickety-split! I climb hills. Jim yells off church steeples. I got a bank account. Jim’s got the hair on his head, the yell in his mouth, the shirt on his back and the tennis shoes on his feet. How come I think he’s richer?

In France, everyone speaks French 'cause they think it's cool. Gives 'em, gives 'em an excuse to smoke.

If I knew he loved me for my wealth, I would have told him I was richer.

Always willing to lend a helping hand to the one above him.