There was Merridew, once the hope of the party, now living in ignoble obscurity with an old and painted mistress, whom he detested, but to whom habit and sapped will-power kept him in thrall.

There was Bullen, who blew his brains out.

In a generous glow I waxed prophetic and drew a vivid picture of Dale's moral, mental, physical, financial, and social ruin, and finished up in a masterly peroration.
Then, without moving, he calmly said: "My dear Simon, you are talking through your hat!" He had allowed me to walk backwards and forwards on the hearthrug before a blazing fire, pouring out the wealth of my wisdom, experience, and rhetoric for ten minutes by the clock, and then coolly informed me that I was talking through my hat.
I wiped my forehead, sat down, and looked at him across the table in surprise and indignation.
"If you can point out one irrelevant or absurd remark in my homily, I'll eat the hat through which you say I'm talking." "The whole thing is rot from beginning to end!" said he.

"None of you good people know anything at all about Lola Brandt.

She's not the sort of woman you think.