Mrs Overall Quotes

Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder? Nobody spoke so he said it all the louder It’s a dirty Irish trick and I can lick the Mick Who threw the overalls in Murphy’s chowder.

Don't you contradict me!' Mrs Dubose bawled. 'And you -' she pointed an arthritic finger at me - 'what are you doing in those overalls? You should be in a dress and camisole, young lady! You'll grow up waiting on tables if somebody doesn't change your ways - a Finch waiting on tables at the O.K. Cafe - hah!

Myron walked up the little brick walk and knocked on the door. A very attractive black woman answered, a pleasant smile at the ready. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, emphasizing the high cheekbones. Age lines around the eyes and mouth, but nothing drastic. She was well dressed, kind of conservative. Anne Klein II. Her jewelry was noticeable but not too flashy. The overall impression: classy. Her smile seemed to fade when she saw him. “Can I help you?” “Mrs. Yeller?” She nodded slowly, as though not sure. “My name is Myron Bolitar. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” The smile fled completely. “What about?” Her diction was different now. Less suburban civil. More street suspicious.

She had realized that Mrs. Halton had given her something even more valuable than jewellery: the voice, the mannerisms and overall demeanour of someone entitled. Everywhere she went people thought Elise was rich, which ment that they gave her things without expecting her to pay - at least not right away.

Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder?

The more I thought about Jocelyn's theory, the less bizarre it seemed. Yes, there were things about it that were absolutely cuckoo - Mrs Chang's Mexican double and so forth - but still, overall the idea was not without its merits. It made a strange sort of sense to me, on an intuitive, metaphorical level. Being in here - going crazy - it did feel like your life had been hijacked in some inexplicable way. It did feel like a parallel universe, separated from the real one by only the flimsiest of partitions.

We made quite a stir as we entered, thanks mainly to Cora's outfit. It was one of those one-piece overall-type jump suits such as are worn by garage mechanics and fashionable women, all the rage just then in New York. I wouldn't run the garment down by any means. They are eminently practical and I'm sure comfortable, and Cora's was an all-white silk and lace number in which she looked stunning to say the least, but it gives you something of a start to see your hostess greet you at the door looking like your friendly Mobil dealer. All she needed was her name in script across the breast pocket. "Fill 'er up," I said at one point during cocktails, handing her my empty gin-and-tonic glass for replenishment. Nobody laughed, especially Cora. Except for my escort.