'But it always seems wicked to burn bread, doesn't it ?' 'Not when it's weevilly,' replied the thoroughbred, after sipping the hot tea.
He emptied the contents of the tin upon the coal fire, and the room presently began to smell of mouldy toast.
'Besides,' he said, 'it's cruel to burn weevils, I suppose.

If I'd thought of that, I'd have left them alone.

It's too late now.

They're done for, poor beasts! I'm sorry.

I don't like to kill things.' He stared thoughtfully at the already charred remains of the holocaust, and shook his head a little.