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"Now, You Think This Thing over, March, And Let Me Know The Last Of Next
Week," Said Fulkerson. He Got Up From The Chair Which He Had Been Sitting
Astride, With His Face To Its Back, And Tilting toward March On Its
Hind-Legs, And Came And Rapped upon His Table With His Thin Bamboo Stick.
"What You Want To Do Is To Get Out Of The Insurance Business, Anyway. You
Acknowledge That Yourself. You Never Liked it, And Now It Makes You Sick;
In Other Words, It'S Killing you. You Ain'T An Insurance Man By Nature.
You'Re A Natural-Born Literary Man, And You'Ve Been Going against The
Grain.
Week," Said Fulkerson. He Got Up From The Chair Which He Had Been Sitting
Astride, With His Face To Its Back, And Tilting toward March On Its
Hind-Legs, And Came And Rapped upon His Table With His Thin Bamboo Stick.
"What You Want To Do Is To Get Out Of The Insurance Business, Anyway. You
Acknowledge That Yourself. You Never Liked it, And Now It Makes You Sick;
In Other Words, It'S Killing you. You Ain'T An Insurance Man By Nature.
You'Re A Natural-Born Literary Man, And You'Ve Been Going against The
Grain.
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