I can't stand it much longer, Mr.
Grady; my reason will totter upon its throne.

Here, only this morning, he sent me a poem entitled "Lines to Hannah." Are you fond of poetry, Grady ?' "'Oh, I dunno; I don't care so very much about it.'" "'Well, I'll read you one verse of the "Lines to Hannah." He says--to Hannah, mind you-- "The little birds sing sweetly In the weeping willows green, The village girls dress neatly-- Oh, tell me, do I dream ?" Now, you see, Grady, that is what is unseating my mind.

A man can't stand more than a certain amount of that kind of thing.

What do the public care whether he is dreaming or whether he is drunk?
What does Hannah care?
Why, they don't care a cent.

Now, do they?
"'Not a red cent.' "'Of course not.