He snapped his fingers and said, “Jack, you're lucky. I just remembered, my sick old man is got some red devils from a script at his pad. But the pad is way out on Hundred-and-six Street and Massie Avenue.[”]

Q. Took the interurban at Denison? A. Yes, sir. Q. And went from there to McKinney on the interurban?

The stupid fellow hurriedly kissed the portrait, whipped out his knife, quick as lightning removed the miniatures, and substituted two photographs. Closing the case he deposited it carefully on a shelf containing a lot of girls' books and nicknacks. In a moment he was out of the room. Now what did all that mean? Some devilment, I'll be bound, for there was a wicked expression on the scoundrel's face all the while.

To one of my very nervous patients, who was an abstainer, whose fancy was fixed on his mother, and who repeatedly dreamed of climbing stairs accompanied by his mother, I once remarked that moderate masturbation would be less harmful to him than enforced abstinence.