I ask you to note the condition he's in." Here, again, the Colonel burst into tears.
"And, oh, my God!" he sobbed, "could they ask me to trust myself to a drunken rowdy of a driver, even if I _was_ going ?" Amos was not only sober, he was a shrewd observer of events, a seasoned judge of men.

He turned away without further parley.

Big Joe told him he ought to be in better business than trying to break up a pleasant party.
As the 'bus started, the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" floated to us again, and we knew the day was lost.
"A hand of iron in a cunning little velvet glove," said Westley Keyts, in deep disgust as he left us.

"It looks to me a darned sight more like a hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_" I have often been brought to realize that the latent nobility in our human nature is never so effectually aroused as at the second stage of alcoholic dementia.

The victim sustains a shock of illumination hardly less than divine.