At this Mr Vladimir, smiling faintly at the documents he was still scanning one after another, murmured "As long as it is not written in Latin, I suppose." "Or Chinese," added Mr Verloc stolidly.
"H'm.

Some of your revolutionary friends' effusions are written in a _charabia_ every bit as incomprehensible as Chinese--" Mr Vladimir let fall disdainfully a grey sheet of printed matter.

"What are all these leaflets headed F.P., with a hammer, pen, and torch crossed?
What does it mean, this F.P. ?" Mr Verloc approached the imposing writing-table.
"The Future of the Proletariat.

It's a society," he explained, standing ponderously by the side of the arm-chair, "not anarchist in principle, but open to all shades of revolutionary opinion." "Are you in it ?" "One of the Vice-Presidents," Mr Verloc breathed out heavily; and the First Secretary of the Embassy raised his head to look at him.
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said incisively.

"Isn't your society capable of anything else but printing this prophetic bosh in blunt type on this filthy paper eh?
Why don't you do something?
Look here.