I'm here to earn my bread with the hands I was born with, and to eat what they earn, and live by it.

Let a man live according to his gifts--bagosh! Till I'm sent for, that's what I'll do; and when time's up I'll take my hand off the bellows, and my leather apron can go to you, Gingras, for boots for a bigger fool than me." "There's only one," said Benolt, the ne'er-do-weel, who had been to college as a boy.
"Who's that ?" said Muroc.
"You wouldn't know his name.

He's trying to find eggs in last year's nest," answered Benolt with a leer.
"He means the Seigneur," said Muroc.

"Look to your son-in-law, Lajeunesse.

He's kicking up a dust that'll choke Pontiac yet.