fectly good American: "Not on your life!"
I felt like a fool. Some years before I'd worked Kansas City until I thought that the ground needed to lie fallow for a while, and I was on to the accent. I'd been a "distinguished foreign guest," and the leading citizens trimmed me at poker while I was making myself popular and finding out where they kept it. When I was all fed up with the place I worked a couple of banks, then ran over to Monte to give it away to the Prince of Monaco, for you mustn't forget that the greatest rest for the grafter is to become a happy, idle sucker for a while. That is the reason why so many American millionaires go to Europe for their vacations.
So when Rosalie came back at me with that "Not on your life!" and no mistake about the "your-r-r-r," I was about as startled as if Chu-Chu had stuck his head over the wall behind us—which belonged, I believe, to Prince Marat. No French woman could have got that accent, any more than an American woman could ever hope to pronounce the simple French word for "king."
Rosalie threw back her head and laughed. She was mighty inviting to look at when she laughed, and I got an impression of soft throat, moist red mouth, and her tantalising eyes looking down half-closed over her cheeks. I must have looked like a fool, because she laughed harder than ever; in fact, she laughed too hard for just ordinary amusement.
Suddenly she straightened up and wiped her eyes. She had laughed so hard that she had slipped down the bank, and her short skirt was drawn up over her knees, and this and the dimpled face made her look
