You should never have sent the poor man off to these heathen countries." Then, turning to me, she added sharply: "I suppose he is embalmed; we should like to bury him in Essex." "Embalmed!" I gasped.

"Embalmed! Why, the man is in his bath, or was a few minutes ago." In another second that pretty young lady who had been addressed was weeping with her head upon my shoulder.
"Margaret!" exclaimed her companion (she was a kind of heavy aunt), "I told you not to make a scene in public.

Mr.Quatermain, as Mr.Scroope is alive, would you ask him to be so good as to come here." Well, I fetched him, half-shaved, and the rest of the business may be imagined.

It is a very fine thing to be a hero with a big H.Henceforth (thanks to me) that was Charlie Scroope's lot in life.

He has grandchildren now, and they all think him a hero.