Then the only memory of life would be of the gallop.

No crawling into the night for me, if I can help it.

Mother of Heaven, no! Let me go at the top of the flight." "It is all the same to me," responded Jean Jacques, "I want to know it all--to gallop, to trot, to walk, to crawl.

Me, I'm a philosopher.

I wait." "But I thought you were a Catholic," she replied, with a kindly, lurking smile, which might easily have hardened into scoffing.
"First and last," he answered firmly.
"A Catholic and a philosopher--together in one ?" She shrugged a shoulder to incite him to argument, for he was interesting when excited; when spurting out little geysers of other people's cheap wisdom and philosophy, poured through the kind distortion of his own intelligence.
He gave a toss of his head.