Explore "Mike or Alec or Rufus" by Dashiell Hammett on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I don't know whether Jacob Coplin was tall or short. All of him I ever got a look at was his round head -- naked scalp and wrinkled face, both of them the color and texture of Manila paper -- propped up on white pillows in a big four-poster bed. The rest of him was buried under a thick pile of bedding.
Besides he and I in the room that first time, there were his wife, a roly-poly woman with lines in a plump white face like scratches in ivory; his daughter Phyllis, a smart little Jewess of the popular-member-of-the-younger-set type; and the maid who had opened the door for me, a big-boned blonde girl in apron and cap.