Tag: books, carmen-sternwood, chessmen, home, memories, old-letters, past, philip-marlowe, pictures, radio, so-noir-it-hurts, the-hobart-arms

I didn’t mind what she called me, what anybody called me. But this was the room I had to live in. It was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine, that had any association for me, any past, anything that took the place of a family. Not much: a few books, pictures, radio, chessmen, old letters, stuff like that. Nothing. Such as they were, they had all my memories.