I _know_ you want a clear record.

I know it better to-day than I ever did before.

Citizen Fusilier, I honor your intentions--" Agricola roused a little and looked up with a miserable attempt at his habitual patronizing smile.
"H-my dear boy, I overlook"-- but he met in Frowenfeld's eyes a spirit so superior to his dissimulation that the smile quite broke down and gave way to another of deprecatory and apologetic distress.

He reached up an arm.
"I could easily convince you, Professor, of your error"-- his eyes quailed and dropped to the floor--"but I--your arm, my dear Joseph; age is creeping upon me." He rose to his feet.

"I am feeling really indisposed to-day--not at all bright; my solicitude for you, my dear b--" He took two or three steps forward, tottered, clung to the apothecary, moved another step or two, and grasping the edge of the table stumbled into a chair which Frowenfeld thrust under him.