"The grain of truth," he wrote, "among the bushel of lies that this young gentleman has told you is, that he was once a guest under my roof--I forget whether for two nights or three.

He will never be there again--neither now nor after I am in my box" (this was the Squire's playful way of alluding to the rites of sepulture).

"He has no more claim upon me than any other of my bastards--of whom I have more than I know of--and in fact less, for I may have deceived their mothers, whereas his played a trick on me.

As to his expectations from me, I can only tell you this much, that I expect he will come to be hanged; as for interest, whatever he may have with my son of a she-dog of a chaplain, he has none with me; and as for money, so far as I know, he is a pauper, and likely to remain so as long as he lives." There were other sentences spurted from the volcano of the Squire's wrath, but to the same effect.
"A nice letter of recommendation, truly, and from his own father, of the young gentleman who asked me for my daughter's hand!" growled Trevethick.

"You ought to be thankful to get out of Gethin with whole bones.