For it is a good fight, Mr.Quarrier; it will be talked of for years to come, wonderingly; not because of your effrontery, not because of my obstinacy, but because such monstrous immorality could ever have existed in this land of ours.
Your name, Harrington's, mine, will have become utterly forgotten long, long before the horror of these present conditions shall cease to be remembered." He stretched out one ponderous arm, pointing full between Quarrier's unwinking eyes.
"Take your fighting chance--it is the cleanest thing you ever touched; and use it cleanly, or there'll be no mercy shown you when your time comes.

Let the courts alone--do you hear me?
Let the legislature alone.
Keep your manicured hands off the ermine.

And tell Harrington to shove his own cold, splay fingers into his own pockets for a change.

They'll be warmer than his feet by this time next year." For a moment he towered there, powerful, bulky, menacing; then his arm dropped heavily--the old stolid expression came back into his face, leaving it calm, bovine, almost stupid again.

And he turned, moving slowly toward the door, holding his hat carefully in his gloved hand.
Stepping out of the elevator on the ground floor he encountered Mortimer, and halted instinctively.