Why does he want to make me live in the same slow way that he does himself?
There's some difference in our ages, I rather think! Why does he bully me about being always home by eleven o'clock?
Why does he force me into a tea-merchant's office, when I want to be an artist, like you?
I'm a perfect slave to commerce already.
What do you think?
I'm supposed to be sampling in the city at this very moment.

The junior clerk's doing the work for me; and he's to have one of my dress-waistcoats to compensate him for the trouble.

First my shirts; then my waistcoat; then my--confound it, sir, I shall be stripped to the skin, if this sort of thing goes on much longer!" "Gently, Zack, gently.

What would your father say if he heard you ?" "Oh, yes! it's all very well, you old humbug, to shake your head at me; but you wouldn't like being forced into an infernal tea-shop, and having all your pocket-money stopped, if it was your case.

I won't stand it--I have the patience of Job--but I won't stand it! My mind's made up: I want to be an artist, and I _will_ be an artist.