From The Thirtyfirst of February, by Julian Symons:

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"Are you an admirer of the immortal Walt? I refer," Mr Pile said with a slight cough, "to Disney, not Whitman."

[N.B. This book was written long before Walt Disney's death--so I'd say reports of his immortality were not so much exaggerated as premature.]

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"It's what we're here for." They both said ha ha.

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From Sweet Narcissus, by M. K. Lorens:

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His ugly and dispassionate elegance seemed to attract certain kinds of women to him in the same way some people are so passionately drawn to modern art.

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She laughed. It wasn't one of those three-octave arpeggio laughs I'm convinced some women take laughing lessons to perfect.

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He just seemed to keep smiling as if he were imitating his own photograph.

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From Death of a Sunday Writer, by Eric Wright:

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She had been a librarian for thirty years. Facetious by nature, very early in her career she had developed the habit of speaking in titles.